


Waterlogged

by Phantomato



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Morally Grey Hermione Granger, Not a Love Story, Tom Riddle is Not Voldemort, Tom Riddle is a Sweetheart, Tom Riddle-centric, Unhealthy Relationships, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 69,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27652790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomato/pseuds/Phantomato
Summary: Muggle-raised Tom Riddle is intercepted in his first year at Hogwarts by a Slytherin Head Girl, Hermione Granger, who decides to help the boy avoid some of the worst experiences of being a Muggleborn in Slytherin. And then she graduates—she has Slytherin ambitions to fulfill. AU, no time travel.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Nott Sr./Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 308
Kudos: 459





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this one’s done. This has been a difficult writing journey for me, and I so very much appreciate those of you who connect with the work.
> 
> I suggest you read this story if you’ve read Tom Riddle pairings and thought to yourself, “Gee, I wish there was more of Tom’s perspective in this.” This is not a love story, or if it is, it is a love story about falling in and out of love. Tom will grow to be a soft version of his character, Hermione is a hard version of hers, and the secondary characters, Tom Riddle Sr. and Thoros Nott, figure prominently in the story. If that sounds interesting to you, I highly recommend you give this a shot.
> 
> —
> 
> Original Author’s Note:
> 
> Hello, and welcome to a Tomione AU. The pairing will take a few chapters to develop, as Tom starts as a child and Hermione is older. Heed the tags: we’re working toward a soft Tom and an ambitious Hermione, told from exclusively Tom’s POV, in this fic.
> 
> As always, please comment and let me know what you think! I love hearing from readers. I also post meta commentary about each chapter over at my [tumblr](https://phantomato.tumblr.com/tagged/waterlogged), plus answers to asks, so if you’re the type of person who likes to peek behind the curtain, check over there!

Tom Riddle knew that he was more than anyone else: more important, more intelligent, more worthy. The other children at the orphanage called him weird, they called him a demon, because they were afraid to acknowledge his worth. He knew this as sure as he knew his eyes were blue and his hair was black.

It took some time for the other children to learn to respect Tom. It was difficult for them, he understood, because they had such limited minds. He was patient, however. He built up his reputation across years, first by cowing the younger children, and culminating with the subjugation of Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop in the seaside cave. Yes, Tom had established his absolute supremacy at the orphanage and planned to ride it until he reached adulthood and could leave the godforsaken place for good.

Rather, Tom’s life would have worked like that, until Professor Albus Dumbledore arrived and turned his world upside-down by announcing that he was a wizard. It was enthralling, exciting news: there was a reason behind his previously-unexplained powers. He could study how they worked and strengthen them. There was a whole new world for Tom to discover and conquer. It was just that, well, he had so little time to enjoy his dominance of the orphanage. He felt bittersweet about leaving for his first year of Hogwarts. Tom knew that though his greatness would soon be recognised in a more important world than the one in which he had been raised, he knew that by attending a boarding school, he would be relinquishing some of his well-earned prominence in the only home he had known his whole life.

Tom’s initial impression of Hogwarts was more than enough to chase away any melancholy. His first ride on the Express was not much to note except in the way it served to heighten his anticipation of the main event. He caught glimpses of his future: someone’s familiar, an older student in imposing robes, a book snapping as if its covers were jaws. He didn’t dwell on his unfamiliarity with the customs nor on his lack of money to purchase food from the trolley. Tom Riddle was a patient boy, and he was destined for more than anyone else, and his concerns were so much bigger than a handful of—what was the money called, again?—sickles and galleons.

If he tried, he could not remember the boat ride to the castle. Tom was vibrating with suppressed excitement by that point and the castle rising from the lake expanded to encompass his whole focus as he and the other first-years approached.

His first brush with the majesty of the great hall would stick with him until death, however—it was a cloudless night, and as a boy raised in smoggy London, he could never before recall a time when he thought about the sky. The ceiling of the hall reversed his impression of the cosmos completely. Right then, Tom resolved to learn everything he could about the subject that had inspired such a monumental feat of magic. He took in the tables filled with older students, the professors seated at the head of the room, and the single, lone stool placed at center stage, and decided to make the most of his first impression. These people would want to remember his first day in their midst, he was sure of it.

Tom wanted to be sorted into Slytherin. He’d read all about the houses in Hogwarts: A History. The heavy book was only an optional item on the reading list, but he had scrimped enough with the funds Professor Dumbledore had provided him to purchase a secondhand copy during his one shopping day in Diagon. The book had quickly become his favorite. Tom pored over the descriptions of the founders and their houses, and he decided that three other than Slytherin were right out. Hufflepuff was unsuitable for obvious reasons, Ravenclaw didn’t appeal because the house’s pursuit of knowledge seemed to lack focus, and Gryffindor, after some deliberation, was thrown out because of the emphasis on knightly traditions. He admired the lion house for its commitment to action, but the world had moved on from the time of Merlin (who, apparently, had been real) and King Arthur, and Tom didn’t see reason in being bound to outdated customs.

He had arrived at Slytherin through process of elimination, yes, but it seemed a fitting place for a person with as much ambition as him. Loyalty strayed a bit close to Hufflepuff for his tastes, and Tom couldn’t see himself entrusting anyone else with his ambitions, but every gem had its flaws. So young Tom was pleased when the ratty piece of cloth that passed for an authority figure agreed and placed him into Slytherin. He had been hoping to be a hat stall, if he was to be honest with himself, as people seemed to notice those. However, instantaneous sorting garnered some reaction and he approached his green-and-silver table with a confident stride, sitting at the end nearest the professors with the other first-year students.

The food at the feast was a revelation for Tom. He tried to pace himself, but he was a boy raised in an orphanage during an economic depression, and his gluttony was inevitable. If he had been able to think, to focus on anything other than the first good meal of his life, he would have noticed that the other first-years at his table weren’t talking to him. No, they were not just snubbing him, they were moving away. They were exchanging furtive glances with each other and with their older siblings further down the table. He might have seen eyes around the Slytherin table narrowing, elbows nudging, and hushed recountings of known half-blood marriages. Tom might have noticed one girl in particular, her breast pinned with a gleaming golden badge, looking contemplatively at him from the other end of the table. He was just a hungry orphan boy, though, and for one night in his life, he forgot to look.

The moment when Tom began to notice his housemates did not arrive until much later that evening, once he and the other first-years had been introduced to the Slytherin dorms and the rules of their house by that very girl with the golden badge on her chest. He had followed her speech as best as he could, but he had felt himself growing nauseous as the night continued, and he was almost bent in half from discomfort when the time arrived to go to his dorm and choose a bed. That was when the girl grabbed him.

She put her small, feminine hand around his thin wrist with surprising strength for a girl of her build, and Tom felt the jolt of skin contact immediately. He rapidly straightened, ready to jump back and fight—he was not above punching a girl—but she had a look of steely determination in her eyes and it was directed outward at anyone who might dare to interfere. Tom had seen the look before. It was the look Mrs. Cole had used when he was young and refused to bathe with the other children, and it would mean that he was about to be dropped in lukewarm water with his clothes on. It was a look that an older child would use before grabbing his jaw and force-feeding him more of the tasteless gruel that the orphans were served. It was a look that said, “I am going to make this happen, whether or not you accept it,” and he hated it because it had always been applied to him, to forcing Tom into unwanted actions, and he was utterly unable to process that someone would ever deploy it on his behalf. In his confusion and nausea, he let her drag him to the first-year boys’ dorm.

“You’re claiming the bed by the door tonight. Which trunk is yours?” She demanded, not unkindly, but with clear urgency. He was unable to form a response.

“Tom, you need to tell me now: which of these trunks is yours?” When he still did not respond, she grumbled and sighed. “Oh, for the love of—fine, I’ll just guess.” He watched the girl push aside four monogrammed trunks with clear distaste, hesitate between two unmarked trunks, and finally point to the smaller of the two. “Yours?” Tom nodded and the girl placed it at the foot of the elaborate four-poster nearest the door. “I’m going to cast some spells over your bed now. They’re all for your protection, and you can ask me about any of them that you want, but I’m not giving you a choice in the matter. They will prevent certain... risks you might face over the next few days, but they won’t last forever. Come back to me when they wear off.” He watched with some amazement as the girl waved her short, dark wand in complicated patterns and lights danced and settled into the fabric of his bedclothes before fading.

He hadn’t seen much magic being cast, but this magic was clearly advanced magic. The incantations, when she used them, were long, and her movements were fluid as she chained multiple spells together. He’d watched some other students casting petty things, a jinx or a charm or something silly, during the sorting ceremony. That was nothing compared to what Tom witnessed the girl casting, and even if he had no idea what she was doing, he resolved to set this as his minimum baseline for his seventh year. He would be stronger than this girl, no matter how much less his courses might actually demand of him.

Tom couldn’t concentrate for long, though, and as her casting continued for some time, he regressed from standing straight to standing with a stoop to sitting on the ground to lying on the ground, curled into himself. His whole middle was wracked with cramps and he couldn’t keep up the pretense of not feeling ill; he wanted the girl to just be done for tonight so he could wrap himself in his blankets and try to sleep it off. He didn’t understand the cause of the pain. Discomfort like this was not unfamiliar to the children in the orphanage, as they often ate food of questionable quality, and he knew he could ride it out given enough time. Tom had always recovered from illnesses quickly. However, the food at Hogwarts wasn’t spoiled—he shouldn’t feel like this. Caught up in his own thoughts, he didn’t anticipate the soft touch to his shoulder from the girl, who was now crouching low in front of him. He jerked back at the contact, the second such contact of the evening, which were probably the only two times anyone had intentionally touched him all year.

“Is it your stomach, Tom?” He didn’t quite nod, but she observed his arms curled over his midsection and seemed to infer the rest. The girl sighed. “All that warding for naught... we need to get you to the hospital wing. You ate too much at the feast. It will be hard to understand at first, but you have to learn not to eat everything you’re served. Hogwarts, unlike the Muggle world, will never run out of food. You will always have another meal. Only eat enough to feel full, and try not to let the waste upset you.” Something shifted in her expression, and he faintly observed her eyes softening, even as her mouth stayed firm. “I—sorry, this is really a lesson for another time, let’s get you up and to the infirmary. It will be for the best if you can stand on your own until we get out of the dorms. Can you manage that?” Tom nodded once and pulled himself upright quickly, before the girl could touch him again.

The odd pair made their way out of the Slytherin dorm, the girl’s hard expression deterring any errant questions. She placed her arm around Tom’s waist as soon as they reached the stairs out of the dungeon, which made for three intentional touches in a single night. If he weren’t about to faint from cramping, he would have questioned her motives. As it was, he just let this strange girl half-carry him to the hospital wing, where she tucked him into a plain bed. He heard a quiet conversation between her and an older woman—the nurse?—about nausea and teeth and a standard medical checkup. The words barely registered as he drifted into fitful and pained sleep, cast out from his new bed, for his first night in the magical world.


	2. Chapter 2

Tom woke to a pair of inquisitive brown eyes peering at him from behind a thick book. Before he could catch the title, it had been closed and put aside, revealing the owner of the eyes to be the girl from last night. In the light of early morning, he could see that she was much older than him, definitely a seventh-year, though she was not physically imposing. She was a short and slim girl, but her presence was amplified by the thick, curly brown hair that ran down her shoulders and back. She didn’t look like any of the girls he had known before; she carried an air of intentional polish that probably made her popular with adults. 

“Good morning, Tom,” she greeted him in a friendly-enough tone. “Last night might be a little difficult for you to remember, but I’m the Head Girl of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger, and I’m also in Slytherin.” Head Girl Hermione Granger tapped that shiny gold badge pinned to her breast, which must have marked her position. “I think we should talk more sometime, but for this morning, I want you to focus on getting ready for breakfast before the rest of the school is up and about. I brought you your uniform,” she waved at a stack of folded clothes by the foot of his bed, “and your book bag with the books you’ll need today. Now get yourself dressed and I’ll lead you down to the great hall.”

He watched her warily. Tom didn’t trust authorities, and even if this girl was also a student, being Head Girl meant she had loyalties to the school as much as anything. Hogwarts seemed like an improvement over the orphanage but he would not trust it blindly. Thankfully, she withdrew behind a privacy curtain as soon as he got himself upright. Tom waited a moment to confirm that she wasn’t going to try and look while he changed, before eventually getting on with it.

The first day of classes was a whirlwind of information. Hermione—she insisted he call her Hermione—had given him his time table before they separated at the Slytherin table and urged him to focus on getting his bearings. He learned quickly that quills and ink were a messy and awkward way to take notes, his head of house was named Professor Slughorn and was an annoying brown-noser who favored students with the right family names, and the other students were intentionally not talking to him. 

He also learned that he was a mudblood. Tom was a smart boy and he knew a slur when he heard one.

He learned that mudbloods were nothing in the eyes of purebloods, and that Slytherin housed more proud purebloods than any other Hogwarts house. He learned that he was the lowest rung on the ladder in the entire school, as a first-year Slytherin mudblood, as if being a poor orphan was not enough. He learned that in this world, the magical world that was supposed to save him from the life of an unremarkable city rat, he was starting over completely. He was still a weird child. He was still unwanted.

* * *

Tom ended up back in the hospital wing on his first Saturday, just two days after he arrived at Hogwarts. Hermione had sent a younger Slytherin prefect to show him the way, and, he suspected, to confirm that Tom actually went. He did not let this prefect touch him.

The hospital matron recognized him from his first night and seemed to have prepared for this. She set him up on a screened bed and retrieved a tray of strange potions, which she forced him to drink with all of the bedside manner of an irate bulldog. She did not acknowledge Tom, not really, despite the intimacy of the exchange. She waved her wand over him and took notes about the strange symbols that appeared in the air. She muttered things about lice and cavities, two concepts familiar to any orphan, and Tom felt smaller than he had in years. He hadn’t felt so inconsequential since Mrs. Cole could still lift him.

Whatever healing he was experiencing—he couldn’t say precisely what was happening, because the matron had steadfastly refused to answer his questions—hurt badly. Tom grit his new teeth and did not cry out, though, even as he spit up blood from his ruptured gums or felt his left pinky realign itself from where it had healed crookedly when he was nine. Maybe it was better this way. He would have hated if the nurse tried to be too friendly with him; he didn’t need a mother. The pain and discomfort was all making him stronger. The other kids at Wool’s would never have dreamed of going a year without lice.

* * *

As the first full week of the term came to an end, Hermione found Tom in the Slytherin common room much too late at night for a first-year. Tom was alone in a corner, still wearing his full uniform, barely keeping his eyes open over a heavy book in his lap. If he had been any other first-year, she would have asked him what he was still doing up at this hour and ordered him to bed. He was Tom Riddle, though, and she had been anticipating this since she heard his name sorted into Slytherin. Urging the boy up from his chair, she herded him into her room against his weak protests. 

“You were supposed to come to me when your roommates got through to the bed,” she accused him as she closed her door.

He was too sleepy to keep fighting the older girl and merely sent his darkest glare her way. She seemed unimpressed with the effort, actually turning her back to him in order to rummage through her wardrobe.

“Here,” she thrust a nightshirt at him. “It will be a little big on you, but it’s green, at least. Get changed.”

“You’re going to watch me?” He eyed her suspiciously when she made no move to give him privacy. 

She laughed at him and it stung. “I’m going to heal those injuries you think that you’re hiding, now take off your shirt. I’ll let you manage your trousers on your own.”

He had no idea how she knew about the injuries. There was an open sore from a jinx on his forearm and a cut of unknown provenance along his side. No one else had noticed him wincing as he moved, but somehow, Hermione must have. He wouldn’t let her have access to him without something in return, though.

“I’ll only let you see if you teach me the spells,” he bargained without leverage, like the child that he was.

“I don’t want to see, Tom, I want to heal you,” she sighed in exasperation. “And which spells? The ones that caused the wounds or the ones I’m using to heal them?”

His eyes glinted in victory before he was overcome by a disruptive yawn. “B—both,” he managed to get out.

“You’ll get them tomorrow, then, because you are going to bed in the next ten minutes,” she relented.

Tom stripped off his shirt and tie, watching warily as Hermione pointed her wand at his person. She did only heal him, her magic soothing the sting of his injuries as the skin mended and closed. Watching his body knit back together was gruesome but also strangely compelling.

“I’m going to rub some dittany on these, now that I’ve seen them. It will hurt a little, but it will prevent scarring. Don’t put the night shirt on yet.” Hermione disappeared through a doorway that must have been an attached bathroom and re-emerged carrying a small vial with a dropper. True to her word, the dittany did burn when it made contact with his skin, but the gentle press of her fingers was more foreign and jarring than the medicine had been. He rushed to cover himself with her shirt once she withdrew.

“Thank you for allowing me to heal you, Tom,” Hermione said, and Tom’s overtaxed mind barely registered that she acknowledged his right to have a choice in the matter. “Finish getting ready and then take my bed. I’ll be in the bathroom for another few minutes.” She grabbed some further clothing out of her wardrobe before disappearing again, leaving Tom to drop tiredly onto her mattress, too far gone to even question why he should accept her concern. He nested in the soft sheets and thick duvet, curling himself into a small, safe bundle without thinking. 

Tom was fast asleep by the time Hermione returned to her room.

* * *

The professors all knew Tom by the end of the first month of term. He had never before thought of himself as academically-inclined or studious—orphans at Wool’s did not have the most rigorous of educations, and the teachers he’d had were too busy trying to prevent brawls between the students to notice how he worked ahead of the lessons. At Hogwarts, however, his anxiety-driven need to not be caught unprepared resulted in great marks. He earned more house points for Slytherin than any of his other yearmates, not that it made any of them like him more.

He learned the ins and outs of blood prejudice. The majority of Slytherins openly detested him for his blood status, but he learned that there were half-bloods in his year. Even the half-blood children with Muggle names seemed to get more respect than Tom did. This was when Tom decided that he would become a half-blood, since he could not be a pureblood. He knew that he had to have a magical parent to be a half-blood, and he wasn’t sure how he could prove something like that without knowing anything useful about either of his parents, but he resolved to deal with that when he was older. He refused to be a mudblood forever.

The first-years in other houses were less openly dismissive of Tom, and there were even other mudbloods who tried to befriend him—he rebuffed these offers—but there were blood purists in every part of Hogwarts. Worse yet, some of his yearmates were unconcerned about his blood status but happy to taunt him about being poor, making fun of his secondhand books and robes. Someone discovered that his charms textbook had been their older brother’s copy, a few years ago, and that Ravenclaw liked to remind him of it during every class. Tom thought it the height of wastefulness for the family to rebuy a brand new copy of the book for their second child. That was a cold comfort, however.

Hogwarts faculty were largely less dismissive of Tom due to his blood status than the students, but he recognized bits of the same prejudice in the way that they would react to his magical proficiency as though he were a particularly talented trained animal. He could live with that. Slughorn might be a patronizing, self-important old man, but he praised Tom’s successes and that might be useful later on. Professor Dumbledore was Tom’s least favorite. He hadn’t liked the older man when they first met and Dumbledore had tried to scare him away from stealing things (and Dumbledore had not scared him, had _not_ , even when he thought the wardrobe might really be on fire), but in class, he was worse than Tom would have anticipated. He didn’t have the right words to describe why Dumbledore made him uncomfortable, but he felt the weight of the man’s disapproval in every interaction they shared. Tom had the sense that to Albus Dumbledore, he would never be more than a dirty, suspicious orphan.

Regardless of the pressures and the prejudices that he faced, Tom avoided asking for help. He remembered that Hermione made the offer, but he was learning how to at least detect the jinxes before getting into bed. He practiced avoiding them in the hallways, if not preventing them. Tom didn’t want to rely on some girl, least of all a girl who was older and more powerful than he was. He didn’t understand what she would get out of helping him, and that made him nervous.

* * *

It was October when Tom’s independence broke. His roommates placed some kind of spell on his bed that made noise only when he was lying down. He tried to dispel it, but it kept coming back, and he thought they might be waking up in shifts to reapply the jinx throughout the night. He hadn’t slept for more than two hours straight in a week.

He knew that he needed a protective spell that would prevent their jinx from even taking hold. Hermione was the only person who would do that for him. He didn’t want to ask her, and he really wouldn’t have, but Tom was so tired that he’s starting to waver in class. He nearly charmed the eyebrow off of his defense partner yesterday. Tomorrow, he would be in a potions practical for two hours, and he couldn’t risk melting down his cauldron. It would be too expensive to replace.

Tom knocked on the Head Girl’s door that night.

She answered in her pyjamas, looking unsurprised to see him.

“Took you long enough,” Hermione said, confirming that impression. “Did you bring your own pyjamas this time?”

Tom started, stepping backward. “I just want you to ward my bed again—”

She interrupted: “I will, _tomorrow_. You don’t want the other boys knowing that I’m doing this for you, trust me. I’ll go in there tomorrow when everyone’s in class.”

They stared at each other as Tom processed this information. He didn’t like the way that this girl always seemed to have an answer for everything. People who could justify everything they did were dangerous.

However, he still didn’t have a safe place to sleep that night, so he conceded the point and slipped into her room.

“I didn’t bring pyjamas,” he said in a mix of spite and pettiness once she had closed the door.

She sighed and dug the same green nightshirt out of her wardrobe. “Change in the bathroom.”

Tom wanted to take his time and snoop through her private bathroom, but not five minutes after she pushed him in there, she banged on the door in warning. “I’m coming in within a minute, make sure you’re decent. You’re going to brush your teeth tonight.” He paled and folded his clothes neatly, determined not to give the angry Head Girl a reason to find fault with him.

She ignored his tidy pile, though, instead bending to pull something from a cabinet. When she turned around, she had a brand-new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste in her hand.

“You have to take care of your teeth, Tom. I don’t know what your experience was like before Hogwarts, but nothing, not even magic, beats manual oral hygiene. Brush for two minutes; time yourself with your wand.” 

This was absurd. Whatever else she was, Hermione was one of the most powerful witches that Tom had met—she was better than some of their professors, and she was still in school—and therefore the very last person he expected to be telling him about Muggle tooth care. He thought it might be a set-up, something designed to humiliate him, but she just stood there and shook the toothbrush at him more insistently.

“You’re serious?” Tom asked suspiciously.

“Deadly serious, Tom,” she answered without hesitation, and so Tom found himself brushing his teeth under the watchful supervision of Head Girl Hermione Granger.

“Good boy,” she praised him when he finished. “We’ll work on flossing later.” He definitely did not want to work on flossing ever. “Now get into bed. It’s still early, but you’re going to sleep now. You look miserable.”

Tom hadn’t looked at himself, not really, this past week, but he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror as he exited the bathroom. He’d never thought about looking young, but seeing the deep purple bags that he associated with adults under his own blue eyes was alarming. He shouldn’t look anything like an adult, yet! He didn’t ever want to be old. Fear gripped his gut and he thought he might be sick, so he nested deep into Hermione’s plush blankets and wrapped himself up tightly enough to feel protected. His breathing evened as the pressure of the binding blankets sank into his shoulders.

The Head Girl either did not or pretended not to notice Tom’s moment of anxiety as she stood on the far side of the room, contemplating a bookshelf. She carried a slim volume back with her as she settled in an armchair by his bedside.

He expected that she was planning to read for pleasure before going to bed herself, but Hermione began reading aloud from the well-worn book in a calm voice. “Here was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen.”

“This is a book for children!” Tom exclaimed suddenly, bolting upright in the bed. “You’re trying to read me a bedtime story?” The notion was insulting. “I’m not a little boy.”

Hermione huffed and sent him a look that implied she thought he was very much a little boy, but he was already so affronted by her choice of book that he only continued to glare at her. She shifted in her seat, leaning slightly forward toward the bed and folding the book closed to move it from between them.

“And what, precisely, is the issue with me reading from a book for children?” she questioned him expectantly.

“It’s _boring_ ,” Tom whined. He cut a pathetic picture, with his hair rumpled from lying down and wearing Hermione’s slightly-oversized nightshirt, and he milked it for all that he could as he pouted about her book selection. He was eleven, for god’s sake, he didn’t need _bedtime stories_.

She fixed him with her stare, which gave away none of her thoughts. He squirmed and fidgeted with the sheets. “It’s boring, Tom.” He nodded even though it wasn’t a question. “You’re here to fall asleep, yes?” Another nod. “So I should be reading something boring. If I read something interesting, you’ll just want to stay awake.” Tom couldn’t fault that logic, really. He grumpily settled back down into bed, dragging the thick duvet up over his shoulder and curling up so just his eyes stuck out from the covers and he could watch her turn the pages as she read.

She graced him with a small smile before resuming. “On Christmas morning...”

Tom fell asleep as the skin horse told his story.


	3. Chapter 3

He never meant to make a habit of going to the Head Girl. It was just that Tom slept so well that night, and he had his best potions lesson yet the next day, and then even his newly re-warded bed in his dorm wasn’t quite as restful the following night. So, when he knew that he had a transfiguration practical coming up on Friday, he knocked on her door the Thursday night before. He wore his own pyjamas, this time.

“Welcome back, little rabbit,” Hermione greeted. She still made him brush his teeth.

She read _The Velveteen Rabbit_ to him again. When he tried to object, to insist that he could get to sleep on his own, she fixed him with a look that communicated that she would not be talked down.

“If you want to sleep here,” Hermione said, “I’m going to make sure you fall asleep. I won’t give you a place to be awake and anxious all night.” Tom hated that she was right. With his own bed warded, he didn’t come here because it was the only place he could physically sleep—he came here to feel safe when he was asleep. He wasn’t ready to walk away from the offered stability, so he acquiesced and let himself be lulled by the tale of the boy and his rabbit.

And so it continued. Tom didn’t show up every night. He needed to be seen in his bed often enough that his housemates didn’t suspect anything particularly bad. If they thought he slept in the library or the common room, some nights, that was fine. He could not abide being seen accepting someone’s charity.

On his fourth visit to Hermione, she gave up on sleeping in her armchair.

“If you’re going to impose on me, rabbit,” she stated, “you can accept not taking up the entire bed. Now, shove over.” And she hopped in beside him, reading his story while propped against the headboard.

He never actually saw Hermione sleeping. She always helped him get to sleep with her story, and it was always the same story, and she was always awake before him in the morning. They never talked, beyond her confirming that he was ready for bed and reading his story. She also avoided touching him, even though they shared a bed.

This was a good arrangement for him, at first. However, as the term ticked on, he began to grow nervous. He had come to associate Hermione’s room with safety, as the boys in his year were relentless, if increasingly ineffective, in their assault on his living space. If Hermione was holding out on some secret, though, or if she was just gaining his confidence to abuse it later… that would ruin Tom.

It came to a head in the middle of a November night, hours after he had first fallen asleep to the sound of her voice. His sleep had been restless, and he woke when he’d twisted himself around in the blankets almost too tightly to breathe. Tom’s body shook with sweaty, constricted spasms as his disoriented mind reeled in the eerie light filtering through the window to the Black Lake.

A faint, feminine voice cut through the haze. “Tell me five things you can see, Tom.”

He couldn’t comprehend what was happening, and he tried to sit upright, but the tangled mass of sheets had pinned him in place. The pace of his breathing increased and became painful—he couldn’t get enough air to think straight.

“Start with one thing. What can you see? Open your eyes, Tom,” the voice continued to urge him.

He cracked open one eye and saw the silken canopy of the bed above him. He was in the Slytherin dungeons, and, somehow, being able to place himself loosened his tongue enough to croak out: “Curtains.”

“Good job, little rabbit. Tell me another thing. What else can you see?” The pet name clicked into place and Tom began to recognize the speaker as Hermione. He was in Hermione’s room. That meant, if he turned his head to the side, he should see: “Wardrobe.”

“Keep going, sweet bunny. I’m going to work on these blankets, okay?” Hermione didn’t wait for his nod of assent, she must have realized he wasn’t in a place to provide it, but she did pause long enough to let her words sink in before touching him.

“Nightstand,” he named the furniture beside him. Tom felt light fingers pulling the heavy duvet off of him and pushing it down the bed. “C–candles,” he stuttered as he felt her hands push against him more forcefully, rolling his body slightly to loosen the woven blanket trapped under his side. 

Hermione rested a hand lightly on his shoulder to get his attention. “You just need to name one more thing, little rabbit. You’re doing so well. I’m going to need to lift you slightly to get the sheet out, okay? Don’t be surprised. One more thing. What can you see?”

Tom braced himself for the contact, squeezing his eyes shut again as the Head Girl pulled him up by his shoulders toward herself. He felt her arms surround him, peeling the damp sheets off of his back where his bed shirt had ridden up, and he shivered in fear. He was depending on a girl with unknown motives to take care of him. That had never been more real to him than tonight.

“One more thing, Tom. Open your eyes and name one more thing.” Hermione’s voice was soft but commanding, and he felt powerless against her in light of his own vulnerability.

“Your—your book. _V—velveteen Rabbit_.” His teeth were chattering as the cool castle air hit his sweat-chilled skin, now fully freed from the blanket prison.

“You’re such a good bunny,” she praised. “Do you want to bathe at all tonight? It’s late, but it might make you more comfortable.” He shook his head vehemently. “All right, it can wait until morning. You’re lucky you’re too young to be stinky.” Tom certainly felt young at this moment, letting an older girl soothe him. They were supposed to be students at the same school, but Hermione and Tom were clearly not playing on the same field. “Can you tell me what has you so worked up, tonight?” He hesitated, uncertain how to say that he was afraid of her. Adults never liked when he was suspicious of them, and Hermione was practically an adult.

She blinked slowly and tried again. “Is it something about the other boys?” Tom shook his head. “Something else, then? You can tell me, little rabbit. I’ll help you.”

“Why? Why are you helping me?” Tom’s voice turned as demanding as he could manage, though given Hermione’s wry smile, he suspected this had only made him sound younger and less-threatening.

“Did you know that I’m a Muggleborn, Tom?” Hermione asked him in response, avoiding a straightforward answer. He was so frustrated by the evasion that he almost missed the words.

“A—a mud—”

She cut him off midway through. “Never use that word for us, Tom. If you don’t feel safe saying ‘Muggleborn,’ in this house, don’t refer to someone’s blood status at all.”

“Muggleborn,” Tom repeated, and it was earnestly the first time someone had directly introduced him to this word. Three months into his time at Hogwarts, he had exclusively heard himself and others referred to by the slur. None of the professors ever said it, but they also pretended like blood status wasn’t real. “I thought you were a half-blood.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“People don’t call you a… they don’t use that name for you.”

Hermione sighed. “Not in public spaces, anymore, no. People got used to me by the time I became a prefect. You should aim for that, too. Stay on Slughorn’s good side; he loves to be seen as magnanimous.”

Something about her openness jarred a memory loose in Tom’s mind. “In the hospital wing, you promised to talk to me.” He sounded like a child even to his own ears, but he wasn’t going to back down for the sake of maintaining appearances. This girl had already seen him as pathetic as he would ever be. “You never talked. You stopped the jinxes, but you never told me about yourself. You never told me what I should be doing. Were you lying?”

“Oh, baby bunny,” she began to speak, but Tom lashed out at the dismissive name.

“STOP! I am _not_ a baby, I’m not a rabbit, I don’t even want to be Tom!”

Hermione stilled. She put space between them on the bed. “If you’re too tired to handle this tonight, we can talk another day.” She didn’t refer to him by any name, he noticed.

He was glad that she respected his anger. He was also sad at the loss of her closeness. He didn’t know how to feel about that. He didn’t know what he wanted from her. 

One thing was clear, though: even if he couldn’t fully trust Hermione, she was infinitely preferable to his Slytherin dorm mates. He didn’t want to lose the safe haven of her room, so Tom Riddle did something very unlike himself and apologized.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Hermione laughed lightly. “I know, little rabbit. Thank you for your apology. Why don’t we lie down? I’ll tell you about my first year while you fall asleep, is that okay?” He nodded, and she helped him down on his side, facing away from her, before rearranging just some of their blankets to cover them both. “I’m going to rub your back, bunny. Would that be fine?”

He didn’t know. Tom had never had someone rub his back, but she seemed to want it, and she was promising to reveal information about herself, so it was probably a fair exchange. He mumbled a yes and she brought her fingers to his upper spine.

“My first months were much the same as yours, but I didn’t have an older student to ward my bed for me. You can imagine the number of trips I made to the infirmary during that autumn.” He could. Hermione had healed so many little cuts and scrapes for him that she eventually gave him his own bottle of dittany. “The girls are a little less physical than the boys, but I was more socially isolated as a result. They would spread rumors to the students in other houses so that I would have trouble partnering in class.” Tom had not had that issue. He never partnered with a fellow Slytherin, but there was nearly always a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw willing to work with him for the day’s lesson, and even some Gryffindors had come around, despite the house rivalry, once it was clear that Tom was the top of their year.

Hermione began to move her hand. He felt her fingers tap lightly on his shoulder as her palm pushed into the muscle below, rubbing until he had relaxed. “It took me years to learn why I stood out so much. You learn about blood purity on your first day, as a Muggleborn, but what nobody tells you is that blood is a proxy for cultural differences. You have to compromise on some things. You have to find ways to fit in. If you let me, I’ll help you with that.”

Tom yawned, feeling his anxiety slip away as her hand continued to work his spine and shoulder. He hadn’t realized that someone’s touch could feel so nice. “No compromises,” he mumbled sleepily into his pillow. “Wizarding is better than Muggle.”

Her low chuckle fluttered the hairs at the back of his neck. “I thought so too, little rabbit. For the longest time, I thought so too. But you come from the Muggle world, whether or not you like that, and you’ll see the cracks of this world eventually.” That was the last coherent thing that Tom heard, and he drifted into peaceful sleep to the sound of Hermione’s voice whispering into the night and the feel of her hand on his back.


	4. Chapter 4

Something strange happened in the spring term. By early spring, Tom was a regular presence in her room at night, and she hosted him each Sunday morning before most of the school was up and about to teach him about the wizarding world. He learned etiquette and culture at her knee. The routine worked well for him, giving him plenty of time alone with Hermione. It would have been perfect, except that on one Monday night, Tom went to Hermione’s room and found that her door was locked, so he knocked and waited for her response. Instead of hearing her rushing to the door, she shouted for him to “Hold on!” and didn’t open the door for over a minute. When she did, she used her body to block him from entering.

“Oh, little rabbit,” Hermione greeted the pyjama-clad first-year. “I’m spending time with someone tonight. Why don’t you come back tomorrow?”

A male voice floated out behind her. “Who is it?” Following those words, an older boy walked into view behind Hermione. “Tom Riddle?” The boy, a seventh-year with russet hair whose name Tom couldn’t remember, looked at Hermione with some concern. “Is this Head Girl business, Herm? I can step out.” 

He moved to roll down his cuffs, which drew attention to his casual state of dress. He was only just barely in his uniform. He had on his button-up shirt, still, and slacks, but the shirt was partially-unbuttoned and he wasn’t wearing shoes _or_ socks. Tom’s eyes were stuck on the boy’s bare toes, which were undeniable proof that Hermione felt comfortable with him.

Tom had thought he was the only person who got to go inside the Head Girl’s private quarters.

Hermione, traitorous Hermione, turned away from Tom to address the boy in her room. “No, Rudy, you don’t need to go.” Rudy—Rudolph Overcliff, Tom remembered. She placed a hand on his arm and Tom seethed that she offered some other boy comfort. “Tom and I will catch up later.” When she looked back at Tom, her large, brown eyes betrayed nothing. Her face was normal, relaxed, and she acted like this was an ordinary interaction. “Get some sleep, Tom, and I will see you tomorrow.”

And then she closed her door to him. He even heard the slide of the lock being reset.

He was struck dumb, standing motionless in the hall of the upper-year Slytherin dorms in his worn, grey pyjamas. Hermione never turned him away. She always welcomed him in, and read him his story, and rubbed his back until he fell asleep. Well, it had only been a few months, really, but why would she start turning him away now? What was Overcliff doing in her room with his—his bare feet? And, oh god, Hermione had just been in her stockings, too. He didn’t like some boy seeing her without shoes.

Tom walked back to his own room in a daze, drawing the curtains on his bed shut tightly to keep out the rest of the world. He knew the boys around him would whisper, he hadn’t bothered to quietly sneak back into bed tonight, but not even their cruelty tomorrow morning would matter if Hermione had decided to change their arrangement. She was his safe space, and she had rejected him tonight. He felt empty and cold.

He didn’t sleep much that night. Instead of sleeping, Tom planned for the next evening. Hermione had said he could come back then, and he would be prepared to claim his space again. Initially, when all he could feel was the hot anger of betrayal for being turned away, he thought he might punish her by ignoring her for a week. However, he came to realize that that would hurt him at least as much as it hurt her, which was unacceptable. His plan would have to make it clear that Tom was the only person who belonged in Hermione’s room like that. It was his space as much as it was hers.

“What’s all this, little rabbit?” Hermione asked blankly when Tom knocked the next evening.

“I thought we might revise together before bed tonight,” he responded, hefting the transfiguration text and parchment in his one hand. The other held his pyjamas, not yet worn, as he’d decided to stay dressed tonight. His tie was off, his top button was undone, and he’d even had a go at rolling up his sleeves but the cuffs hadn’t looked quite good enough so he unrolled and rebuttoned them before coming over.

His host just blinked at his response. “Sure. You can stay up for another hour, I suppose.”

Tom strode in and placed his things down at the seat opposite hers, near her desk. He kicked off his shoes and socks before settling down to study, curling his toes in the plush wool rug underneath his chair. Transfiguration was his least favorite class, and Hermione knew it. He wanted her to see that he was being responsible by choosing to study it tonight.

She was silent for a little while, and Tom felt her eyes on him, but he didn’t look up to acknowledge her staring. He would show her that he was a focused, diligent student. Based on Overclfif’s reputation, _that boy_ had no business studying with Hermione.

“Aren’t your feet cold, Tom?”

Her bemused voice caught him off guard, even though he had expected her to eventually say something. “My… feet?” His hesitance manifested as a question.

“You’re not wearing any socks. It’s chilly in the castle and you should look after yourself, sweet bunny.” She hummed to herself for a moment before standing up. “Let me just get you a clean pair to borrow.”

“I don’t need your socks!” He was mortified. Overcliff hadn’t been wearing socks, and he looked so… casual and self-assured. Tom was supposed to look like that, not like some kid who needed to borrow a girl’s socks. He turned bright red in embarrassment.

“Nonsense, you need socks. Your old pair are probably all sweaty, so let’s just get you in these, yes?” Hermione was approaching with bundled wool in hand, and she knelt before him and grasped one foot firmly. “Oh, your toes are cold! Don’t struggle, and let me get these on you.”

Tom pouted, but did not struggle. The socks were thick, lumpy, warm, and very purple.

“My aunt made these for me last year. She said that purple and green go nicely together. They’re much warmer than those cotton ones you wear.” She rambled as she stretched the ugly things first over one foot, then the other. She shoved his trouser leg up high enough to settle the cuff of each sock neatly, before straightening everything back out. Hermione was a detail-oriented girl, and Tom couldn’t help but appreciate that care even as he wanted to sink through his chair and disappear from shame.

“Thanks,” he mumbled dejectedly once she had stood up and retreated back to her seat.

“Of course, little rabbit. I’m happy to help,” she said brightly. “Don’t forget to sit up straight, and mind your shirts. This one looks a little rumpled around the sleeves, today. Do you need to review those pressing charms?”

“No, Hermione,” he recited so that this whole experience would end sooner. Nothing could have possibly gone worse, tonight, and he soon put away his studying and retired to bed just so that he could be done with this whole, shameful effort.

He realized during the next week that he still had her awful socks.

The Hogwarts laundry service, which Hermione had explained was run by magical creatures, had returned the cleaned and neatly-folded pair to him alongside the rest of his weekly laundry. Tom hadn’t considered what would happen to them, and of course he wouldn’t have left dirty socks in her room, so he was initially surprised to see the woolen things set upon his bed that Friday. 

He should return them.

But something sparked in Tom when he saw those socks that were plainly not his, that had been a gift from Hermione’s aunt, so innocently laid among his trousers and shirts and pants. It was the same impulse that had come over him when he collected things back at the orphanage, pilfering toys and curiosities from the other children just to have them for himself. Tom liked treasures, and Hermione’s socks definitely counted as such. He hatched a plan. 

The socks went into the very bottom of his trunk, under the heavy winter cloak that had been put away for the season. He buried them next to essays from September and broken old quills. No one would find them there. 

On his next visit to Hermione, he looked around her room with fresh eyes. People didn’t notice the little, everyday things. He had learned his lesson not to touch big stuff from the harmonica—he’d gotten away with it, but the suspicion had earned him lashings regardless. He would never go for Hermione’s jewelry or books. She would notice those right away.

So he stuck to small things. He found a green silk hair ribbon, lost under her bed, and took that first. She probably hadn’t thought about it for months. Tom saved a scrap of parchment on which she had practiced her signature; that was precious for having been made by her. He kept the empty glass vial with her initials inscribed on the bottom that had once held dittany. Tom even dared to rummage through her wardrobe for that old, green nightshirt he had worn twice before, on a night when she stepped out briefly to help a student.

His collection was small, but extremely focused. Everything in it was closely tied to Hermione.

However, something was missing. Tom wanted _The Velveteen Rabbit_.

He couldn’t take it right away, he knew. He could have found a time to sneak off with it, when Hermione wasn’t around, but she would know immediately that it was missing, and it would too obviously be his own fault. No, stealing wouldn’t work, in this case.

Tom did the next best thing and asked for it.

“Hermione?” Tom said one evening, just after she had blown out the candles. He didn’t want to have to see her face if this went badly.

“What is it, little rabbit?” He felt her hand reach for his and offer a comforting squeeze. He returned it easily. Tom looked forward to her touches, these days.

“Do you—do you think you might be willing to give me something, when you leave? To remember you by?” He might have played up the stutter just a bit, just to sound a bit more fragile, but the feeling of vulnerability was painfully real.

“What are you thinking of, Tom?” Her voice was slightly flat as she withdrew her hand from his, and he cursed her caution. 

“I—I’ll miss you reading to me.” It wasn’t even a lie, now. He was twelve, and he knew he was much too old to be coddled like that, but he was actively avoiding any thought about how he wouldn’t hear her bedtime story again after June.

She let out a long sigh. “That book was bought for me by my parents. My mother read it to me when I was a little girl. I am sorry, but I can’t give it away.” 

“Oh,” he managed to reply. He had been trying to manipulate her out of something precious, but Tom couldn’t deny that his failure made him feel sad. Sad and lonely. He was going to be alone next year, and he would never get to hear her read to him again, and he wouldn’t even have their book to remember her by. Hot tears flooded his eyes and he tried mightily to hold back a sniffle as he dealt with her rejection.

He couldn’t even try to steal it on moving day, now. She would know it was him and she would never forgive him.

He heard Hermione shift, and he rolled to face away from her on the bed so that she wouldn’t see him crying. Tom felt stupid and childish. 

She threw her arm over his middle and held him, pulling herself up against his back so that he was surrounded by her. Hermione soothed him, rubbing a circle onto his sternum until his breathing evened out, and he hated that she seemed to always know what to do to calm him down. How was he supposed to do this without her? It wasn’t _fair_. She shouldn’t be allowed to get so close to him, just to disappear!

Neither said anything further that night, but it marked a change in their relationship. During Tom’s final month and a half of his first year, Hermione started turning him away more often. She said things like, “Don’t you want to have some privacy when you sleep? You can’t possibly like having a girl around all the time,” or, “I’m going to be revising until a very late hour, so you should sleep in your own bed so you get enough rest!” It was all a diversion, he could tell. She was never worried about privacy or waking him up with her studying before. Hermione was putting distance between them, and he did not like it.

He got more insistent. He started coming to her room every night because he knew she would turn him down at least half of the time. He’d ask to stay for just an hour or two, just to study quietly around her. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep in her armchair so she’d have to put him to bed in her room. The timing had to be perfect for that to work, though. If he fell asleep too early, she’d prod him awake and urge him back to his own bed. 

Tom was losing her, and he was terrified.

In comparison to that, nothing else in his life seemed to matter. He went through his classes mechanically, completing all of his work with the highest marks but barely registering that time had passed. What was the point, if he was to be left alone with housemates who hated him, next year? Hermione made a few comments about his dissociation, and occasionally tried to ask him if he’d thought about making friends.

He didn’t need friends. Hermione didn’t keep friends. Friends were stupid diversions, and besides, none of them would understand him, not like Hermione did.

“The point of friendships is to meet and understand people who are different from you, Tom,” she insisted during one of their Sunday lessons. “What about the Nott boy? He’s a pureblood, but he seems more interested in school than in pranks. Have you talked to him?”

But Tom dug in his heels and refused. He would never have friends. He wanted Hermione’s attention right now, and then he wanted to spend his next six years keeping his focus on schoolwork. 

The train ride home from Hogwarts was awful. Not only was he stuck in a compartment with a bunch of other loners, he was headed back to a doubtless-terrible summer at Wool’s, where he would have to fight and scrap with all of the other kids just to re-establish himself as the top of the hierarchy. He didn’t look forward to these sorts of power games now that he couldn’t use magic. The bruises from fighting would take so much longer to heal.

And though there had only been whispers of it while he was at Hogwarts, offhand mentions from the Muggleborns or in the wizarding paper, Tom knew that the war was starting soon. He wasn’t sure what that meant for him, yet. He knew there might be bombings, and he knew money around the orphanage would be tight. He might be put to work recycling this summer, to earn his meals.

He wouldn’t be able to practice or even read much about magic until he was back at school. The other kids couldn’t know about witches and wizards, and with his chores at Wool’s and the threat of additional work, he wouldn’t be able to sneak off to someplace private to do his summer homework very often. It would be a struggle just to finish the essays and mandatory reading for each course without taking on the goal of reading ahead that he would really have preferred to do.

There was also the food situation to consider. Tom knew he and the other orphans didn’t eat well, but it was very obvious at Hogwarts that he was on the shorter and smaller side of kids his age. He hated that. He’d eaten heartily at school, following Hermione’s advice, making sure to get meat and vegetables so that he could grow tall and strong when he was older. For the next couple of months, however, he wouldn’t have that opportunity, and he knew he’d come back to second year much skinnier than he was now. 

The weight of these realities bore down on him as the Express drew closer to London, where he would have to hail his own cab in order to return to Wool’s. Tom had just enough money from his impoverished student fund to afford the fare, which was good—he would be mugged if he tried to carry his trunk and walk there. He contemplated not going back at all, but an attendance officer would surely round him up eventually, and he didn’t want to risk not being able to get back to Hogwarts in September. It’s not as though he had anywhere else to stay.

He sat on the train for a long time once it had pulled into King’s Cross, making a pretense of pulling his stuff together so that his classmates wouldn’t see that he had no one to meet him on the platform. Only as the crowd started to clear out did he heft his trunk and trudge down the stairs to face his situation.

On the nearly-empty platform, alone with the few children whose guardians were running late, he had nowhere to hide from the Head Girl. Hermione spotted him immediately as he disembarked and came over to speak with him.

She had been rigorously avoiding him for the last weeks of term. She had her NEWT exams, of course, and he understood that she would need space to focus on those, but the rejection had burned all the same. He wasn’t happy to see her now. Her presence was just a reminder of the loneliness ahead of him.

“Tom Riddle!” She used his full name, in public, not exposing the childish nickname even in front of these stragglers. “Where’s your parent to bring you home?”

Ah. She didn’t know he was an orphan. Tom’s fragile sense of familiarity shattered in that instant.

“Haven’t got one,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact.

“Guardian, then? Who’s coming to retrieve you?” He was just another responsibility to her, now, a child to be taken care of before she could hang up her Head Girl badge for good.

“No one’s coming. I’ll hail a cab.” He felt his accent roughen, again, in his terse responses. Tom needed the self-sufficiency of his orphanage years. Hermione would be displeased, but he violently shoved down that thought, because Hermione wasn’t going to be around after this.

She looked doubtful, but there were fewer and fewer children yet left on the platform, and Tom was quickly becoming the only remaining barrier between her and going home with her own parents, who were waiting nearby. They seemed like a mild, middle-class couple, the type that would come by Wool’s and take home the blonde babies, or maybe a toddler, without ever stopping by the room for older children. He hated them on principle.

Hermione sighed, apparently having decided not to draw this out further. “Tom, I am glad to have caught you,” her words sounded honest but lacked true warmth, “because I prepared some notes for you. It’s a list of the warding spells I used on your bed, should you like to practice them on your own.” She produced a neatly-folded piece of parchment and tucked it into his breast pocket. He felt infantilized by the gesture but bore it without comment.

She spoke once more as he turned to head outside the station. “Tom, won’t you look me up when you graduate? I would like to hear from you again, when you’re grown.”

How could he deny her that?

He still had his treasures, stolen from her room. He was angry that she was leaving, and he couldn’t handle that he needed her so much more than she needed him, but this was Hermione. Hermione, who taught him how to brush his teeth and floss. Hermione, who healed his hurts and protected him from bullies. Hermione, who looked at him like he was someone worth cultivating, when everyone else in the school treated him like a trained circus horse.

“How will I find you?” Tom asked. He wouldn’t make a promise that he couldn’t keep.

“I aim to be very easy to find in another six years,” she promised vaguely. It was not a satisfying answer.

He demanded more. “But what if you’re married?”

She scoffed at his concerns. “I won’t be, and I wouldn’t change my name. If I did, you could always find the record in the Ministry.”

Tom didn’t believe her. He couldn’t, not when the only way he knew how to trust people was to trust that they would disappoint him eventually. Girls got married, changed their names, and disappeared from the public; he’d heard enough students confirming that the wizarding and Muggle worlds worked the same in that regard. However, no matter his doubt, he wouldn’t say no to the girl who had provided so much for him.

“Okay.”

She gave him a real smile, then. “Okay. See you in the future, Tom.” With that promise, they separated, and Hermione Granger walked out of his life.


	5. Chapter 5

He lost five pounds and grew an inch in the summer before his second year.

Tom had thought he might lose even more weight than that, but to his surprise, he wasn’t sent out with most of the other older boys to scrap and recycle. Mrs. Cole had taken one look at his delicate fingers, the calluses of Wool’s erased in ten months of comparative luxury at Hogwarts, and sent him to knit with the girls and the younger boys in that room near the kitchen that always smelled of warm cabbage. 

Knitting agreed with Tom. He was attentive to details and picked up the craft quickly, churning out socks and watch caps and mittens for soldiers. Though it was the middle of summer and the country was not officially at war, they were preparing for when winter would eventually strike. He turned the assignment to his advantage, collecting tails left over from cast-ons, bits of skeins, and serviceable unmatched needles for his own. The warmth of Hermione’s socks stayed with him; he wanted more than just one pair when winter rolled into Scotland again. His illicitly-constructed socks were a bit splitty from all of the splicing, but he could reinforce them with a durability charm in September.

He scraped together as much excess from his student fund as possible to purchase more yarn and sewing supplies, unfortunately at wizarding prices. The student fund wasn’t allowed to be exchanged for standard currency at Gringotts. Tom could let down the hems on his trousers, cloak, and robes and probably get by another year without new ones, but he needed different shirts to fit his broadening shoulders and shoes to fit his feet. He could live with tight undershirts. The cotton jersey stretched.

Tom saved his shilling, his summer allowance from Wool’s, to buy new toothbrushes and toothpaste. Those weren’t sold on Diagon. Hermione would have been so disappointed if he stopped brushing his teeth.

Returning to Hogwarts for his second year was less exciting than he would have hoped. He was happy to leave the orphanage, the newly-declared war, and the rationing behind for another ten months, but he was all too aware that it would be worse when he returned next summer. And at school, there was no longer a Hermione to smooth his way.

Strictly speaking, he didn’t need her here. She had left him with that neatly-folded parchment containing clear instructions to handle warding his own bed. Hermione had laid out the spells by anticipated difficulty, and she’d supplied book references and estimates for in which year he might be proficient enough to cast each of them. They were slightly off, though: he was starting on the third-year wards by late September. Tom kept finding new references in the library that helped him master the techniques faster, and he wasn’t sure why Hermione had left them out. It seemed absurd to think that she wouldn’t have known.

He could be magically stronger than she anticipated. That was a tantalizing possibility.

The boys in his year still tried to pester him occasionally. They would gang up on him in the hallways during the passing periods, when he was most vulnerable, but Tom could tell that he was getting more proficient at anticipating and blocking them. Thoros Nott, one of the less odious boys, had even stopped trying to jinx him entirely. Now, Nott stuck to just calling him a mudblood when forced to acknowledge Tom’s existence.

Tom wouldn’t say that he was lonely without Hermione. Hermione had never sat with him at meals, so his isolated spot between the first- and second-year students was hardly her fault. The elves always put the vegetables no one else would eat in front of his seat. While the other students gorged on roast and potatoes and lard and gravy, he’d pick over the haricots verts and prunes in syrup. Hermione said that bitter green vegetables were just as important as meat for his health; he watched his portions assiduously.

There was just something missing from Hogwarts now that she had graduated. His chest felt a little hollow inside when he passed the empty room where she had previously lived and where he had been invited to sleep so many nights. That was all. He needed to adjust to the new normal. The room would be his in another five years when he was Head Boy, and that felt right.

He couldn’t help but mark the date in October when she first read to him. One year on from that night, Tom discovered that the Hogwarts library did not have copies of Muggle children’s books. The beaky librarian looked at him as though he were a lost puppy when he asked, and he hated her for it. Rabbits are silly, he thought to himself, and yet he wanted to hear Hermione call him one again. No one else had ever given Tom a nickname because they cared about him. 

Demon-child, devilspawn, weird, strange: those were the names Tom had known before Hermione. Rabbit was much better, even if it was silly.

November and December of his second year passed, and Tom felt like his bed was too cold with just him in it. Some of the orphans at Wool’s, the ones that were almost close enough to be siblings, had bunked together during winter nights. He’d never understood that before sleeping next to Hermione; he missed her comforting warmth now. He missed the way that he could wake in the night and feel the ripples in the blankets from her slow, even breathing. The wool socks, hers and his own, helped.

He wore her green nightshirt to shreds that year.

Winter faded into a cool and wet spring. Tom didn’t dwell on how Hermione had started distancing him around this time. He thought about writing to her but discarded that idea immediately. She wouldn’t be interested in anything about a thirteen-year-old boy. Tom wished that she had been more successful at creating space between them.

As the second-years sat their end-of-term exams in summer, Tom overheard that Overcliff had proposed to a current seventh-year Hufflepuff. He knew that it probably meant nothing about Hermione Granger’s life, but he couldn’t help but feel hopeful that she was not on the path to becoming a housewife. She was probably working, or studying for a mastery. She would be too busy to be throwing away her life on stupid things like dating. She might be around when Tom graduated. He didn’t fully understand what he wanted her around for, what he would expect her to do, he just felt a need, deep in his gut, to keep her in his life. Nevermind that she wasn’t in his life right now, nor would she be for another five years—

At the end of second year, Tom decided that he needed to start making friends.

* * *

He cultivated Thoros Nott in third year. Tom had come back from another summer spent knitting for the war effort even taller and having lost even more weight that the previous year. Nott had sprouted up similarly, though his lankiness was purely a product of puberty and not starvation, making the two boys similarly physically awkward. Thoros had light brown hair with a slight wave that he gelled into place quite unattractively during the day, but he was the type of boy who favored practicality over appearances. His posture was straight, his clothes fit well, and he was well-groomed; what more could be expected? Nott barely had more social reputation than Tom to shield himself—he was a wealthy pureblood heir, but he was also a swot. At this age, that was almost as much a crime as being a mudblood.

They both took the Arithmancy and Ancient Runes electives. Tom took more than just those two, of course, but Nott was the only other Slytherin boy to take both of the so-called toughest courses. All that was required to get Nott to stop calling Tom a mudblood was a couple of weeks of study sessions in the library. The other boy’s eccentric father was famously batty for blood purity, and the Nott heir resented the father’s obsession on principle. Tom wondered what it is like to rebel against a parent sheerly for the pleasure of it. He wondered if he would have a genuine experience of adolescence without this form of rebellion, and then he caught Lestrange aggressively necking a Gryffindor girl in an alcove and wrote off the concept of adolescence entirely. The girl had looked like she was just tolerating Lestrange’s affections, and Tom had enough of being just tolerated by others.

Winter rolled around after he and Nott were firmly ensconced as study partners and tentative friends, and Tom remembered the soul-chilling cold of nights in his second year. It was stupid and immature, but he had no other explanation for why he rolled out of his bed in early December and approached Thoros’ own, next to his.

“Shove over,” Tom whispered into his friend’s ear as he lifted the corner of the duvet to sneak underneath. Surprisingly, Thoros did without comment. They laid there stiffly for the first night, skinny back to skinny back, and shared their heat. Tom slept better than he had in over a year.

The next night, when Tom did it again, Thoros tucked the blankets around them both and didn’t face away. He had always slept on his back, Tom knew. The boy was asserting that this arrangement was acceptable to him. So Tom started curling into his friend’s side, head on his shoulder, like he’d always wanted to do with Hermione. Thoros just put his arm around Tom and held him closer as they slept, warm and comfortable together. It was so… nice. Tom would wake in the night and watch his friend breathing, feel his heartbeat under his cheek, and let himself be lulled back to sleep by the boy’s presence. 

All of the boys had some hidden comfort. Malfoy kept a shabby stuffed kneazle that was held together by so much elf magic, it smelled like toffee. Lestrange owled his mum every other day. Dolohov sang folk songs in Russian when he thought he was alone. The Blacks, that whole mess of cousins and siblings, were constantly draped over one another for reassurance and comfort. So it wasn’t a completely foreign idea that two friends would keep each other warm in the depths of the coldest season, Tom even dragging his duvet over in the early January nights when water would freeze inside the bathroom taps. Rosier and Dolohov bunked together those nights, too.

In the grey light of one of those January evenings, Tom roused as he felt Thoros shifting underneath him.

“Fedya,” Dolohov whispered from across the room. He used Russian nicknames for all of the boys. “Fedya, are you awake?”

“What is it, Antonin?” Thoros hissed back, taking pains not to speak too loudly in order to keep Tom from waking. Tom kept his breathing even so he wouldn’t be found out.

“Want to trade your zaichik? This one is too warm,” Dolohov whispered back. Zaichik—he’d heard it mumbled before, had to look it up. Tom knew it was intended as an insult to both him and Thoros, throwing aspersions at their closeness, but it was hauntingly appropriate. Maybe there was some Seer blood in the Dolohov family. First Hermione, now Antonin; Tom remembered hanging a rabbit in his youth, watching it die and feeling powerful. Now he was fated to always be the rabbit.

Thoros tightened his protective arm around Tom. “Piss off, Antonin,” he whispered angrily at their yearmate, and Tom drifted back to sleep with the security of his friend’s concern draped over him like a blanket.

Their arrangement ended when spring warmed the air again, but something had been cemented between Tom and Thoros, something that couldn’t be undone. Thoros looked at Tom like he was something valuable, someone he liked having around, and Tom thought he might understand what a friend was.

Unlike Hermione, Thoros didn’t try to distance himself from Tom. They started studying together for more classes. Thoros lent Tom a spare broom and invited him to throw a quaffle around on weekends; they were both terrible at it. Thoros ate with Tom at mealtimes and never said a word about his eating habits. Tom thought he might even miss his company over the summer.

Nott had a knack for disarming other people—metaphorically, the boy was awful at Expelliarmus—due to his unassuming appearance. Tom leaned on this in his fourth year.

He’d gone back to London for the summer before fourth year to find the city in shambles. Tom had missed the horrific bombing campaign while he was away at school, but the devastation that it had caused cast a shadow over everything. Half of the children at Wool’s had been shipped out to the countryside. It was fitting that Tom would still be there, left with the meanest and most maladjusted boys to scrap and recycle in order to support their existence. There was no knitting for Tom that summer; he lost more weight than ever, even as he continued to grow taller. Everything hurt all the time, his fingers were torn to shreds, and he spent the first week back at Hogwarts recuperating in the hospital wing. The less said about that summer, the better.

Thoros used the time to single-handedly undermine most of the animosity toward Tom. They would never win over the Blacks, but Malfoy, Avery, Rosier, and Dolohov came over quickly. They needed tutoring. Lestrange was standoffish, however, he didn’t want to be left alone. The girls in their year started fawning after Tom once he had recovered and cleaned up. He was tall, his jaw was sharp, and his eyes were, apparently, captivating. If it hadn’t served him so well, he would have been deeply uncomfortable with it all. As it was, he could parlay their attention into necessities—if he mentioned needing a new notebook at dinner, someone would owl him one the next week.

Lestrange went where the girls were. 

Tom and Thoros spent hours together in the niches around their common room, watching their peers through the hazy light of the Black Lake. Nott was a willing resource for pureblood culture, picking up where Hermione had left off years ago. Tom honed his manners under his friend’s direction. Thoros secured etiquette manuals from his family library and even procured a copy of the housekeeping text all of the fourth-year girls were required to buy so that Tom could learn what other wizards took for granted. They read through the home wards together under their shared covers that winter, and Tom discovered how many of Hermione’s spells had come from this particular text while Thoros learned how Tom had evaded their jinxes so effectively in his first two years.

Tom also realized it was time to start looking into his family. He was fifteen, now, and being a half-blood would be extremely useful now that he had acquaintances who could help him make connections in the wider wizarding world. It was a good project for fifth year. He sent Nott away for the summer with an order to research the names Marvolo and Riddle, and Tom looked forward to returning for his OWL year in autumn.

* * *

Tom was named Slytherin prefect in his fifth year, and he wore the badge proudly. He was clearly the smartest of the boys in their year (he was the smartest of all the students across all houses, truthfully), but he never assumed he would be given the honor. Malfoy’s father was on the Board of Governors. Nott was a well-rounded student who earned good marks and participated in clubs. Avery was shaping up to be a star quidditch player. So when the metal pin fell out of his Hogwarts letter that summer, Tom was thrilled even as he rushed to hide the brass from the others at Wool’s. He took a moment to appreciate that Hermione had wanted this for him. 

His thoughts rarely strayed to Hermione these days. A major event like this might recall some of her advice, grown hazy over the past three years without her, or he might hear some turn-of-phrase that reminded him of how he thought she spoke. She’d never said, but Tom thought she might have come from some posh neighborhood in London. He wondered where she had gone during the Blitz. When he had been younger, he’d wanted to stumble across her over the summer, even if it meant her seeing his ratty uniform from the orphanage. These days, he was too busy trying to sneak past national service recruiters over to Diagon Alley in order to mail letters to Nott—who promised some leads based on the name Marvolo—or to browse the secondhand bookstore to think about the one-time Head Girl.

Perhaps that’s why it was Thoros, not Tom, who noticed their new Arithmancy teaching assistant first. 

Nott elbowed Tom hard on their first day of class for the term as they settled into their seats. Tom would have shot a mild jinx at his friend for the impertinence, it was the Slytherin way, but his friend anticipated the thought and pushed away Tom’s wand hand. “Is that Granger?” Nott hissed into Tom’s ear. 

The teaching assistant that Nott indicated was facing away from the student desks. Her brown hair was bound in a low knot, and it could have been Hermione, but from their position, it could easily have been any young woman. Even when she turned around, she kept her face directed at the front row of students as she socialized, and Tom couldn’t honestly say whether the woman was Hermione. 

He hadn’t realized he would forget her face so quickly. More shockingly, he hadn’t realized that fact would bother him so little.

Tom turned back to Nott. “It might be. Let’s see what the professor says.”

“That’s… all? She might be Granger and you’re not more curious?” Thoros was looking at him strangely, but Tom just shrugged and pulled out his textbook, evading the questions in his friend’s eyes. Hermione had been something private. The other students didn’t know that she was anything more than a Head Girl who had helped Tom a few times in his first year, and he wouldn’t accept any evidence to the contrary.

It was Hermione Granger, of course. She was apprenticing in Arithmancy and would serve as a teaching assistant for two years. That was nice, Tom thought. He should catch up with her sometime. 

The first week of term came and went without either Tom or Hermione making an effort to reach out to the other. For Tom’s part, he was busy sorting out his health in the infirmary and catching up with his friends. Well, Nott might be his only true friend—it was embarrassing, but he missed the prat over those long summer months each year, when he had time away from working to even think—but Malfoy, Avery, Rosier, Dolohov, and Lestrange added texture to his days. They were insufferable, spoiled, rich boys, but they were his. Malfoy had broken an arm over the summer on his new broom, but thought he might try out for the open chaser spot on the Slytherin team this year. Avery had gone steady with a Rosier girl he started seeing last spring and was thinking about getting his father to set up a betrothal contract. Rosier, the girl’s cousin, looked distraught whenever the conversation came up. Dolohov, whose family was not from Britain, thought the idea of teenage betrothals was hilarious and Avery got sputtering mad when he tried to defend himself. Lestrange proclaimed that he was too much a free spirit to be chained down to one woman at this age, and then Malfoy made a quip about a pregnancy scare with the Carrow girl, and the whole group laughed at Lestrange’s embarrassment. 

So, yes. Tom was busy, much too occupied with his friends and his new nightly rounds as a prefect to think much on a girl, now a woman, who he had last talked to over three years ago. 

Hermione had always had a way of sneaking up on him, though. If he had been looking for it, he would have seen her eyes trailing him at meal times as he talked with his inner circle. He might have noticed her looking at his prefect badge, and the way he interacted so naturally with his professors. He might have seen how she observed him in class, as he always politely waited to see if someone else would answer the professor’s question before confidently raising his own hand. Tom had never learned to see Hermione as someone with her own self-interests, however, so he never spared a thought to how her gaze lingered on him those first few weeks of the fall term.

She requested that he stay after class in late September. 

“Tom Riddle!” Her voice was intentionally cheerful in the way that professors always are when they start a private conversation with a student. It reinforced the years between them.

“Miss Granger.” Tom’s address was purposefully respectful given their circumstances.

“It’s still Hermione for you, little rabbit.” She smiled and a part of him felt soft and warm. He even let his own mouth quirk up at her show of affection. “You’re a prefect. Congratulations. I’m so glad my advice stayed with you.” It _was_ her advice, Tom thought. She remembered that. They had been connected, all these years, as Tom worked to earn the prefect position. “And I’ve noticed that you made friends with all the pureblood boys in your year, Tom. You’re building quite the sphere of influence for yourself, you clever bunny.”

He was, he nodded. Tom was creating a space for himself and he was proud of it. He learned that from Hermione: claw and bite your way into their world if you want to survive. He was doing better than surviving, really. Thoros was honestly good company and had confessed last year that he didn’t care one whit about Tom’s blood. The rest might be persuaded to follow that path, disregarding his poor upbringing, especially if Tom could prove some magical heritage from the right sort of family, even if it was a squib. Yes, he was doing well.

Hermione threw her arms around him and broke his spell of introspection. “I’m so proud of you, little rabbit.”

Any part of Tom that had been holding out melted in that instant, and he dissolved into her warm and supportive embrace. Hermione was back. Hermione still cared about him. Hermione was _proud_ of him, and Tom was once again the 11-year-old boy with his first taste of acceptance and comfort. He hugged her back fiercely.

“I know you don’t need me anymore,” Hermione said as she stroked his hair. He tried to contest that but she shushed his protestations. “No, I know, you’ve gone these past years without me, and you’ve demonstrated your independence. But if you ever, _ever_ , want to talk to me, just come knock on my door, okay? Come straight to my quarters and I’ll take care of you.”

And how could Tom turn down an invitation like that?


	6. Chapter 6

Tom was knitting a cabled hat in a deep navy wool when Thoros sat down next to him on the bed. Thoros had gifted him this yarn—it was smooth and strong, a 5-ply guernsey wool, maybe, and just enough to make a nice, thick cap. The cables were a new flourish. He’d never had enough yarn to justify patterns before Thoros came along, and Thoros got a pair of socks for Yule each year as thanks. This year’s socks would be a handsome, fine camel-colored wool, the same as Thor’s hair, and with cables if Tom could master the technique on this trial hat first.

“Tom,” Nott nudged him gently so as not to disturb the knitting. Double-points were tricky business and the whole dorm had known Tom’s wrath on the few occasions he had misplaced his working needle. (Rosier’s cat had kicked it under a bed once. Rosier’s cat was warded out of Tom’s side of the dorm room, now.)

Tom marked his place and looked over at his friend. “What is it, Thoros?”

“You know how I asked my half-blood third cousin to look into the Riddle side of your family?” Tom nodded. There hadn’t been any news on that lately. “He wrote back to me this morning.”

“Go on,” Tom prodded his friend impatiently. 

“He found records of a Muggle with the name Tom Riddle. That could be your father.” Thoros looked hesitant to deliver the news. They hadn’t really expected that both sides of Tom’s family would be pureblood wizards, but proof that one side was fully Muggle was nonetheless disappointing news. He was that much closer to not having any wizarding ancestry to claim.

At Tom’s dark look, Thoros rushed on. “If he’s a Muggle, the witch—er, your mother—probably lived nearby. Now that there’s a location, I can narrow down my search. Marvolo has to be magical. It has to be.”

Tom threw his knitting down and sighed dramatically, still dissatisfied with the news, even if it represented progress. “It might not be, Thor.”

“Everyone already sees you as a Muggleborn, zaichik,” Thoros imitated Anton’s accented pet name with a smirk. “Anyway, that’s not the most important development.”

Tom had picked up his knitting again, convinced that there was nothing in this conversation worth distracting himself from making progress on his cables. He grumbled a surly “what?” at his friend, not truly interested in anything further if it wasn’t confirmation of a magical ancestor.

“My cousin couldn’t find a death certificate for Tom Riddle.” Tom arched an eyebrow but did not respond, and Thoros frowned back. “Your father is probably still alive, Tom.”

“Fuck!” Tom dropped the three stitches on his cable needle in surprise and cast aside the hat carelessly. “The bastard is alive?”

“Seems likely,” Thoros looked a little concerned. He moved to lean against Tom more solidly. “I haven’t told anyone else.”

“You had better not!” Tom said thunderously. He was angry and his left hand twitched toward his wand, but without another in their empty room and with Nott’s comforting presence at his side, the gesture had no target. 

After a beat of silence, Thoros asked, “Will you look him up?”

“No,” Tom answered quickly. “He didn’t want me and he’s a worthless Muggle. There’s nothing for me there,” he sneered rather than acknowledge any other possibility.

“If that ever changes…” Thoros said haltingly, fiddling with his fingers in his lap, his head on Tom’s shoulder and face turned away, “let me know, yeah? I’ll keep the information for you, just in case.”

* * *

With the benefit of a specific location in Britain, Nott’s research into Tom’s family progressed quickly. By November, Tom had not only a family name, but a whole legacy of family secrets to his name, and there was only one adult he trusted enough to consult.

“Hermione?” Tom knocked at the familiar door to her personal quarters on a Saturday evening, hoping she would be in, probably reading a book, maybe curled up on the sofa near her hearth. Her feet might be bare, toes tucked demurely underneath herself for warmth, and if she was in the right mood, she might let him nest near her like he was in first year again. Time had changed so much—these days, it was Nott that Tom sat next to while his friend read quietly and he darned or hemmed or knitted, no longer dependent on another person for his entertainment. 

But tonight was different, for as much as he wanted to lie at her feet and hear her read to him, he needed to discuss something. He needed her input, and his anxiety must have shown in his eyes, because she let him in wordlessly.

They sat together silently for a moment as she fixed him a cup of tea with sugar and a dash of milk, just as he had always liked. Once he had thanked her for the offering, taking comfort in the slight brush of their fingers as she transferred the cup and saucer to his hands, he launched into his story.

“I’ve found one of my parents,” he began, conveniently evading any mention of the other. “My—my mother. Or, rather, her family, as she passed when I was born. There is... I have one living relative, an uncle, her brother. I don’t think I want to meet him, but he exists.”

“You’re not telling me something, little rabbit,” Hermione observed as she cocked her head. “Which family do you come from?”

She always had been too smart, too clever, too much more worldly than him; thankfully, he was coming into his own intelligence as well. Hermione asked for the obvious missing detail, not the hidden one. He stumbled over his declaration: “She was a Gaunt.”

Hermione sucked air through her teeth at the revelation. “A Gaunt, Tom. That’s Sacred 28.”

“I’m still just a half-blood,” he said quietly. “Nott told me that Gaunt doesn’t carry much weight anymore; the last time a Gaunt accomplished anything of note was centuries ago.”

“Forget blood purity, Tom, you’re descended from Slytherin.” Her eyes flashed with something calculating, and he felt a little cold. “You’re the Heir of Slytherin, and you’re in Slytherin. You’ll be Head Boy in two years, and the scion of a founder. That can be used.”

“The Heir of Slytherin is just tied to rumors about the Chamber of Secrets. I don’t think that associating myself with that legacy will do much for me outside of Slytherin, and I don’t want to be more stuck in house politics.” He was the best student in his year, easily, and enough of his peers envied him for that. He’d brought his pureblood housemates into his circle well enough since the start of fourth year, but to dominate them and rule from within would require him to fully devote himself to the effort. If he ascended to that position and let up in his subjugation even minutely, one of the other boys would try to strike him from behind as punishment for his impertinence. He wanted power, and he wanted to make their idiotic pureblood society recognize him, but he didn’t want the work of maintaining a stable of disloyal followers. Hermione had made it alone and he would improve on her model by having friends and acquaintances, but he did not envy the idea of leading by fear.

“Forget the schoolyard concerns, little rabbit. You will leave here sooner than you think. No, I want you to use this to position yourself for what follows Hogwarts. You’re going to locate the Chamber and use it to prove your heritage, and you’re going to make it very, very public news.” Plan completed, she sipped her tea.

“I—I already know where the Chamber is.” That had been his very first task once he learned of his Gaunt heritage. “And... I know what it contains,” he admitted with a mix of hesitation and pride. He could default to either emotion pending her reaction.

Hermione’s eyes widened uncharacteristically and her voice came out in a whisper as she asked, “What’s in the Chamber?”

The Chamber was practically a myth to most, but it was a myth of the magnitude of the Holy Grail to Slytherins. Every Slytherin dreamed about what their founder had hidden in the school—treasures? Knowledge? Magic beyond modern means? It must be incredible, they all knew, to be shrouded in secrecy and guarded by an unknown beast of legend.

“You won’t like it,” Tom grimaced. He was talking to a school official, even if it was Hermione. “Please don’t be too upset with me. There’s a library of Slytherin’s writing and research, emptier than you might expect, as most of the Chamber appears to have been stripped some time ago. But there’s a, erm, a basilisk down there.”

“A basilisk?! Tom, you could have died!” Hermione shrieked and jumped up, dragging him bodily onto the sofa and holding him close. “Tom, that was incredibly risky for you to do on your own. Are you a bloody Gryffindor? You should have _told me_ before you looked into this on your own.”

He snuggled into Hermione’s embrace, very obviously enjoying her concern. Even if he knew, at 15, that her offer of help was unrealistic, for just tonight, lying alongside her on the sofa, he could feel like the 11-year-old boy who she could protect from anything. Tom mumbled something like an apology as she pressed him to herself. She seemed so much smaller, these days, than he was used to. He was much taller than her now, and he thought he might still be growing. Had he really been that much smaller just four years ago? Tom could only indistinctly remember how their bodies used to fit together, so differently from how he and Thoros slept through the winters. This new arrangement, though equally comforting, was jarringly different. Lying down with Hermione spooned behind him, his knees were at her calves and his chest was so much broader than hers.

“I don’t accept that you endangered yourself so recklessly, but what’s done is done. You’re a Gaunt, and an Heir of Slytherin, and you have enough evidence to convince the goblins to test your bloodline and verify it. That’s your first order of business, and I will escort you to Gringotts over break to ensure they do it right. Oh—actually, we need you to announce the Heir issue to some trusted parties first. Headmaster Dippet, of course, must be included. Probably Slughorn, unfortunately, as current Head of House. Dumbledore will insinuate himself into anything; prepare for that. Perhaps also the head of the Board of Governors, who isn’t a Slytherin right now, but that might serve to your benefit if the others have children and grandchildren who don’t trust you.” She paused to breathe, and he felt her warm exhalation on the back of his neck. It had long since stopped being strange to him that he enjoyed the feeling of someone breathing behind him, but Hermione was still special. She was the only adult that he trusted.

“You should manage that meeting alone, unfortunately. I shouldn’t be seen as coaching you. Will you be okay with handling Dumbledore, bunny?” She rubbed a slow circle into his belly and he backed further into her arms, pressing his spine to her front to absorb as much of her warmth as she could generate.

“Yes, I can manage.”

“Good boy.” His cheeks warmed at her praise. “Okay, so bring that to Slughorn soon, and ask for an audience with Dippet; the other two men will follow. You should be able to resolve it before winter break. I’ll bring you to Gringotts and we can secure your proof of bloodline. There might not be any money—just be sure to temper your expectations. Anything you would have access to, any vaults or properties or other assets, would have been accessible to almost a thousand years of your ancestors, and is still accessible to that uncle you mentioned. What do you know about him?”

“Not much,” Tom admitted lowly. “Nott was able to get some notes from when his father wrote the _Pure-Blood Directory_ , but it was all a decade old and the man didn’t seem to know much about the current-day Gaunts when he included them. I know that my uncle’s name is Morfin, and he was in Azkaban for Muggle-baiting when I was born.” It was that arrest record that had finally allowed him to find his family—Morfin and Marvolo had been taken in at the same time. “But I don’t know if he is even aware of me. He was released back in 1928, so he could be anywhere, he could be dead, but there was no obituary in back issues of the Prophet. My... grandfather, he had a death announcement.”

“Right, so, he’s the obstruction, really, as the current patriarch of your family. Any idea on whether he’s married? Had his own children? Did he attend Hogwarts or hold a job anywhere?” She queried him rapidly and with the precision of a solicitor.

“No to all, as far as I can tell,” Tom stammered out.

“That’s good. The likelihood of you having a cousin that claims your inheritance, whatever it may be, are lower. The Heir of Slytherin claim will also be stronger with you as a current Hogwarts student, compared to a man who never touched his ancestor’s school.” She hummed absently in thought, the sound vibrating through his short hair. “But you may have even less claim to the resources of your family, unless we can use his criminal record to discredit or even remove him from the position as head of House Gaunt. Really, assets are almost inconsequential compared to your true goal.”

Money wasn’t important? Tom knew Hermione was a working adult, but she couldn’t be so callous as to forget that he was still parentless, sent back to a hellish London orphanage each summer. She had hardly offered her home to him. He shifted slightly away from her on the couch. 

She picked up on his upset and followed him forward, circling her arms around his chest in a tight hug. “I’m sorry, bunny rabbit, I’m sorry. That was thoughtlessly rude of me. Anything that helped you out would be important, massively important, especially when you come of age next year.” She pressed her face into his neck and he relented, scooting back into her body again. “I just meant that the crown jewel of your family legacy is your Wizengamot seat. You still have one. It’s been unfilled since 1853, but you have one.”

“A Wizengamot seat?” He didn’t know how to process this, and he was still a little hurt by her dismissal of money. Sure, some of his classmates came from families with Wizengamot seats, but even they never seemed to talk about it. The governing body of the Wizarding world was highly abstract to his 15-year-old mind.

“A _familial_ Wizengamot seat, Tom,” Hermione corrected. “There are seats for Ministry officials, but those seats only last for the occupant’s duration in office. The Gaunt seat is yours until either you cede it to an heir or your death, and you can fill it as soon as you turn 17. Claiming it might be tricky, with your uncle still alive, but again, we might be able to use the criminal record to argue he isn’t fit for the position. He might not even be interested; it hasn’t been claimed for decades, nearly a hundred years. It doesn’t come with a stipend or any other form of compensation.”

“So...” he was almost embarrassed to ask the question, as Hermione clearly thought this was incredibly important, but he just didn’t understand her enthusiasm. “What would this mean, for me?”

He felt her sharp inhale on his shoulder, felt the brief tightening of her grip around him. “You would have a vote on all new laws, Tom. You would have a seat at the table with the small body of people who make every decision that impacts our society. Half of them don’t care, don’t even bother to understand the importance of their role, they just blindly wield their power in the uninspired way that can only come from generations of unquestioned wealth and status. They could be led to do anything, accept anything, if you compelled them. You would be Tom Riddle, Lord Gaunt, actual wizarding nobility.”

“If what you say is true, I already am that; it is just a matter of time.” His tone was slightly haughty, perhaps, but he was a young orphan boy learning that he was entitled to more than he could have ever imagined. 

Hermione’s tone turned calculating, and her grip on his shoulder uncomfortably tight, when she spoke. “Yes, just a matter of time.”

* * *

Resolving the matter of the Chamber was surprisingly painless, despite the authorities involved. Even Albus Dumbledore couldn’t fault a student for notifying the Headmaster about their dark family legacy; it’s not as though Tom had released the basilisk. Yes, the boy had obviously risked himself by visiting once before notifying a teacher, but what was done was done, and Hogwarts could reclaim this part of its history—that is, if they could relocate the basilisk, which Tom decidedly did not volunteer to help with, even if he could speak with her. Tom enjoyed leaving that exercise as a challenge for others to complete.

Rumors followed him around the school until winter break. He heard the whispers about his family, his heritage; he understood that many did not believe there was any truth to them. Tom was a brilliant and attractive boy, but he was well-known to be an orphan, and some would always assume he had fabricated an illustrious connection until there was blood proof. The important thing was that his fellow Slytherins withheld their judgment pending further information, which they mostly did. He hadn’t lost his cautious nature since last year, when his tormentors had largely stopped hexing him, and he was able to fend off the handful of jealous jinxes sent his way.

Hermione retrieved him from his dorm on December 19th, the first Saturday after term ended. Most of his peers had left that morning to board the Express back home, and their trip to Diagon was timed to avoid as many Hogwarts students as possible. He noticed that she didn’t dwell in her old dormitory, grabbing his hand roughly and nearly dragging him out to the gates to apparate him.

Tom hadn’t apparated before. He planned to get his license next year, and he was confident that he would master the magic as soon as he tried it, but reading about a thing and experiencing it firsthand are different beasts. Hermione, ever the stoic, did not warn him. When he felt the squeezing, pinching distortion of her magic ripping through space to relocate their bodies, it was all he could do to grip her hand back. Landing in a side alley behind Gringotts, he dry heaved for an embarrassing number of minutes as she waited, her hand still firmly on his own, and he clung to that single comfort as a lifeline.

The goblins seemed to have been waiting for them when they entered Gringotts. They were hurried off to a private room where a goblin in middle-management boredly directed them through the paperwork to establish Tom’s lineage. It was over and done with more quickly than even the discussion with the headmaster.

When he was asked to name a legal magical guardian who would help manage his affairs until he turned 17, he didn’t hesitate to ask Hermione. She agreed easily. As she predicted, he had virtually nothing of worth in his accounts, and he would hardly dare to claim it until his uncle was removed from the picture. They started the process at the Ministry for voiding Morfin’s heirship and replacing him with Tom the same day.

If Tom had been expecting his life to turn upside-down with his blood status changed, it hadn’t quite turned out that way. Maybe it was because he was already a fifth-year, a prefect, and considered the most intelligent and most handsome student at Hogwarts. His reputation didn’t have much room to go further up with the general student body. Perhaps it was because his close friendship with Thoros had eased up the prejudices within Slytherin, or because Slytherins weren’t going to roll over for a new prince that hadn’t been born into their culture. Regardless of the specific forces at work, when term resumed in January, Tom’s life continued as it had been. Hermione checked in with him weekly about his legal status, and they celebrated his official appointment as Heir Gaunt in April, to become Lord Gaunt when he turned 17, but his focus was mostly on revising for OWLs—he planned to take them all, of course—by spring term. Nott was nearly as ambitious, and between the two of them, they were supervising the revision schedules of nearly every Slytherin in their year. 

“Why do the boys call you Zaichik?” Hermione asked him when she caught him alone in the library in May.

“Hmm?” Tom asked distractedly, having been in the middle of correcting Malfoy’s charms practice essay. The blond boy had a deep affinity for healing charms, no doubt due to his history of quidditch scrapes, but his glamour charms needed work. He noted another reference text before placing down his quill. “It’s a nickname, Hermione. Antonin—er, Dolohov—he calls all of us something Russian. Thoros is Fedya. Abraxas is Mishka. There’s one for everyone.”

“No, I understand that,” she said a bit impatiently. Correcting her tone, Hermione elaborated on her question: “Why Zaichik, specifically? Did you tell anyone about—about my nickname, little rabbit?”

Tom sat back, a look of uncomfortable confusion on his face. “No. No, Hermione. That’s… that’s private.” The thought of exposing anything about his difficult first year to anyone other than Hermione, even to Thoros, was appalling. He could only feel comfortable sharing that with her. She had been there for him. She had kept him safe. Little rabbit was her privilege alone.

“Okay, bunny. I just wanted to understand. How do you think that happened, then?” Hermione prodded him curiously, leaning over his parchment and looking into his eyes.

A thought struck Tom in that instant: Hermione was pretty.

Of course, Hermione had always been pretty. That was simply a fact. But she had been pretty in the abstract way that all young women were pretty: flushed with youthful energy, irrespective of their physical bodies. It was the type of pretty that was unremarkable for its universality.

Now, Tom realized she was pretty in a way that was specific to her appearance. She had lovely, long, curly hair that fell over her shoulders and back when she wore it down, something she only did in private—and Tom was part of that private circle of trust. She had big, expressive brown eyes that could make you feel like the center of her world. Hermione’s lips were pink and pouty in a way that he’d heard other boys lusting after, and for the first time in his life, Tom was hit by why that was appealing. Oh, _fuck_ , was she pretty. 

His own adolescence crashed into Tom Riddle in that moment, and he knew, without a doubt, that Hermione should not know about his arrangement with Thoros Nott. Nevermind that it was innocent, nevermind that it was winters only, nevermind that every boy had something equally embarrassing to help him through school—that topic was strictly _off limits_ with a pretty girl, the ranks of which Hermione had just joined.

“Er, I think it was because I was so small when I was younger,” he lied quickly. “And I was a flighty child,” he embellished, “always on alert for their jinxes.” The real bitterness of his tone sold the lie effortlessly.

Hermione’s fond smile was breathtakingly gorgeous.

“You were an adorable bunny,” she complimented him, “and you’re growing into such a handsome young man.” 

He went positively red, and her smile was knowing.


	7. Chapter 7

Tom thought his OWL results—Os across the board, Hogwarts’ highest results in most subjects in a century—would be the most eventful part of his summer. He’d posted a letter to Thoros about them the same day he received the news, and they’d even managed to come together for a celebratory day in Diagon soon after. Thoros bought Tom his first Fortescue’s cone, chocolate, as congratulations.

Compared to that, nothing else should have mattered. His routine of recycling and avoiding recruiters was old hat by now. That didn’t make the experience easy, mind—it just meant that Tom didn’t spend the energy to consider it remarkable. He would get through, and next year, when he was of age in the magical world, he would work out some arrangement so that he could spend his summer before seventh year in the wizarding world. A tavern might be willing to give him room and board in exchange for work, maybe. He just knew that this summer would be his last at Wool’s, and he would grit his teeth and keep the end goal in mind.

So it was extremely surprising to Tom that Hermione came to find him at Wool’s almost exactly a week before the fall term started.

At first, he thought something might have happened. Had the wizarding side of the war impacted Hogwarts? Had she been let go from her apprenticeship, or enlisted into the fight? Had he? It wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. The strain of war on the continent had reduced the variety of their meals in fifth year, and anyone with a toe in the Muggle world could tell that wizardom would have to make concessions before this war was over. If Muggles sent 16-year-olds to fight, perhaps the magical community did, too.

He barraged her with questions as he dragged Hermione into his room at Wool’s, unheeding of his dreary surroundings. Her sudden appearance was alarming enough to override any sense of shame; he didn’t notice her taking in the dire environment. She deferred answering anything until the door to his room was closed—against Mrs. Cole’s protestations, but the woman had lost any real authority over Tom years ago—and their space had been thoroughly warded for privacy.

“It’s okay, little rabbit. Nothing terrible has happened, but I do have important news for you,” she said once they had settled, Hermione onto his narrow bed and Tom anxiously fidgeting beside her. “This summer, I found your father.”

“You found him?” he exclaimed, forgetting his ruse from last year in his surprise.

Hermione noticed immediately, eyes narrowing. “How did you know he was alive?”

Ah, buggering fuck. “Nott figured it out last year and told me,” Tom admitted to her. He couldn’t lie under that accusing stare. “I didn’t look him up or even find out where he lived. We just knew he hadn’t died yet.”

Placated, Hermione continued pointedly. “Well, now that we’re on the same page, I took the liberty of contacting him, as your magical guardian. It took some effort on my part to get him to accept the contact—be grateful that part is done with—but I promise that it was worthwhile for you.” Hermione was grinning like the cheshire cat, and Tom was anxiously waiting to hear what she had done. “Your father is a wealthy man, Tom. He’s a wealthy man and there are Muggle laws detailing what men like him owe to their children, and he had sixteen years of neglect for which he owed compensation. You aren’t independently wealthy, yet, but you’re more than set for your next two years.”

He was speechless. All Tom could do was stare, wide-eyed, as she detailed her unbelievable claims.

Taking his silence as encouragement, Hermione continued. “What’s more, I convinced your father to legally adopt you. You want that so that you avoid any complications when it comes time for your inheritance, but it also means that you can live in his home for the remainder of this summer, and all of next. You don’t have to worry about living here anymore, bunny rabbit. You have someplace safe.”

Someplace safe turned out to be a distinguished country manor in a tiny town he’d never heard of before being violently wrenched through space to visit it. He couldn’t get his own apparition license soon enough; Hermione was not gentle with side-along.

Tom Riddle Sr. was a handsome man with a sour air. He looked at Hermione as though she smelled like something foul, and he seemed eager to have her out of his home as soon as she entered it. Her manner was frosty in return. Tom wondered how these two had ever managed to negotiate anything. Once he had been settled and Hermione had left—promising to owl him every day of the remaining week of summer and with a pledge that she would get him to King’s Cross—his father summoned him to his study.

The two Toms sat on either side of the broad antique desk that dominated the room, young blue eyes facing old, in tense contemplation of their counterpart. 

Riddle Sr. spoke first. “Tom,” he addressed his son by name, for what else was there to do, “I understand what you are. I know about your school. I know that you’re some kind of nobility in your world. Your grandparents know this; the servants do not. That will not change. Am I clear?”

Tom nodded sullenly, not sure what to make of this man. His father couldn’t expect to impose serious restrictions on him, could he? Not after 16 years of abandonment, surely. Tom had no plans to talk to anyone in Riddle Manor more than was necessary for his own survival. He wouldn’t be revealing anything about himself to either grandparents or servants if he could avoid it. 

Frankly, he was almost resentful of Hermione for putting him in this position, even if it was in his best interest. Only the promise of financial security won him over.

His father eyed him critically before saying anything further. “I want to establish something right away. You don’t have to like me, but we’re legally bound, now. You will use your words to acknowledge what I say, Tom. You can expect the same from me.” He paused to stare directly at his son, and Tom was chilled by the intensity of that expression. Was that how his face looked when he focused on someone? It was unnerving. “So I will repeat myself this once: have I been clear with you?”

“Yes,” Tom bit out. He would not call this man father. He would not call this man sir. Not to his face. He hadn’t earned the privilege.

“Thank you, Tom,” the older man replied neutrally. To his credit, he was not assuming any level of familiarity with his son. “Your friend suggested that you like to read, so I will grant you full access to the library while you’re here. Do not enter my father’s private study or my mother’s parlor without being invited. You may knock and request entry to my study whenever I am here, but do not enter it on your own. Do not enter anyone’s bedroom. The grounds are yours to explore. Do you ride?” Tom shook his head and then belatedly verbalized his “no.” There were no horses for orphans in London. “Next summer, you will learn to ride. This summer you can visit the stables, if you wish, while a groom is present—that’s for your own safety.”

“Anything else?” Tom sulked through the listing of rules. Wool’s was a hole, but with the war on, there was almost no oversight for an older ward like himself. He was expected to work a certain number of hours per week, but outside of that obligation, he had free run of the city. He felt stifled already, and he hadn’t been in his new _home_ for much more than an hour.

Tom couldn’t wait to get back to Hogwarts.

“Oh, quite a bit,” his father’s smirk was a predatory mirror of his own. The older man proceeded to list the policy for school holidays (Tom may visit with a week’s advanced notice, but would be assumed to be staying at school for every holiday other than Christmas), his monthly stipend (he may only spend 20% of it, the other 80% would be sent to a trust for when he came of age—Muggle “of age”), contact (owl post to Riddle Sr for emergencies only, otherwise, use a forwarding service from magical to ordinary post), and so much more.

To Tom’s eternal surprise, his father demanded that he catch up on the subjects he’d missed from an ordinary education.

“You want me to learn maths?” he demanded, not understanding why his absent father would even care about his schooling.

His father rolled his eyes at the outburst, clearly a restrained man. “Maths, science, literature, language, and history. You’re a Riddle as much as you’re a Gaunt, and if you want your stipend from this family’s money, you will have a proper education.”

“I’ll tell Hermione,” Tom threatened. Thus far, Hermione had been the only thing that seemed to make the older man pause; something about the witch clearly upset his father.

“Your witch agreed to this when she signed the legal paperwork, whether she read it or not.” His father looked shaken at the invocation of her name, but powered through the discomfort. “You can see the forms whenever you like, but it’s a condition for as long as either my father or myself are head of the estate.”

Tom wasn’t happy about this more out of principle than true objection—he could see plenty of reasons to be better-educated in Muggle subjects, and truthfully, might have pursued some of that information on his own now that he had access to a respectable Muggle library. It just stung that adults in his life would have made it a requirement.

And for one of those adults to be Hermione, at that. Hermione was not someone he liked to think of as a true authority. He trusted her to protect his interests, of course, but he’d thought appointing her as his legal magical guardian was a formality. He needed one, to fight for heirship, and she would have helped him with paperwork anyway. It wasn’t as though he had many alternatives. Slughorn? Preposterous. 

He just had never imagined she would organize something like this without consulting him. Tom thought she would have asked first, or at least notified him that she would be pursuing it. He hadn’t wanted a father. God only knew what she’d done to get his father to accept it; he clearly hadn’t wanted a son. The only good to come of this mess was the financial support. He wouldn’t have to work a paying job after Hogwarts, if he could judge by the state of this manor. He could hold the Gaunt Wizengamot seat full-time once he was an adult and considered the head of the house. Hermione made that sound like important work, and he resolved to learn more about the post now that it was his clear path.

“There are just two more things we need to discuss, and they are both difficult subjects. I… apologize, but it must be done,” his father began to close their discussion.

Tom scoffed. “As though this entire conversation hasn’t been an absurd farce.” It was disrespectful. His father deserved that and more.

Ignoring his son’s comments, though Tom did see his father’s jaw twitch, Senior said, “You likely won’t get this far without a horse, but as a warning: Morfin Gaunt lives in a shack that borders the northeast corner of our property. I don’t know what your lot are generally like; I’ve only met you, Hermione, and the Gaunts. I strongly suggest you stay away from Morfin Gaunt. That man is…” his father’s gaze became unfocused, like he was struggling to remember the specifics of a past event that carried some bad feeling. It looked like an incomplete obliviate, if Tom had to guess. Had Tom Riddle Sr. been the target of the Gaunts’ Muggle-baiting?

That was an unexpected revelation.

His father coughed. “Yes, well, I suggest not heading to that part of the property.”

“Noted,” Tom said without even a pretension of malice. He did not want to find out what a Muggle-baiter would do to someone who looked like a younger version of Tom Riddle Sr. while he was still banned from using magic outside of school.

“Finally, I have to ask you,” his father opened earnestly, with almost a concerned expression on his patrician face. It was unsettling—this man was not supposed to be concerned about Tom. He shrank back in his seat uncomfortably. “Is Hermione… making you do anything? Do you want her to be your friend?”

Senior couldn’t even pretend not to look concerned, now. His face was full of pure worry.

It disgusted Tom.

He knew what this was about. People who preyed on children. With the age gap, he supposed it was only a natural question. If only his father knew it was Tom who was beginning to think about Hermione as anything more than a companion. He wouldn’t be the only student at Hogwarts taken by the arithmancy teaching assistant, he knew. She had been the target of more than one Hogsmeade invitation in the past year.

No. Tom was not worried about that at all, and it was insulting to imply anything of that nature about Hermione. His expression turned dark and he stood abruptly, letting his chair screech across the parquet flooring. “Hermione is the only person who has supported me in my entire life. I would sooner walk away from you and your money than cut her out.”

He couldn’t even begin to process the emotions that flickered across his father’s face, but they passed quickly, and the two Toms, father and son, parted ways. 

Tom spent most of his remaining week holed up in his sumptuous bedroom, teaching himself all of those Muggle subjects he had ignored for five years. It was more space than he had ever been able to call his own, and he couldn’t imagine wanting it any less. The entire arrangement revolted him. He rushed through meals, the only times he ever saw his family, and avoided every other soul in the building as much as possible. Tom lived for the daily owls from Hermione. When she arrived to ferry him to King’s Cross, he left Riddle Manor without a backward glance.

* * *

“You owe me everything, Hermione,” Tom shouted as he barged past her, into her sitting room, on the first Saturday of term. 

“Everything, little rabbit?” she asked with a smirk and a hand on her hip. Tom, who just learned to notice hips, blushed bright pink.

“About the Wizengamot,” he managed to say, past the embarrassment. “About why you care so much that I use my seat. Don’t try and pretend—that must be the reason you went through everything to get my father to provide me a stipend. You want me on the Wizengamot when I graduate, not working to support myself.” Even though he was uncomfortable with his newfound attraction to the woman, he wasn’t a blithering idiot like Lestrange. Tom Riddle kept his focus under pressure.

Hermione sat primly in her upright armchair while Tom slouched over her sofa. He was good at the imperious slouch, he knew; taking up space made him seem more imposing. He was tall, now, and might still get a couple more inches, judging by his father’s height. He had broad shoulders and long legs, and he looked like a king when he let his ankle roll outward and dangled his foot over the opposite armrest.

“Well, Tom, since you are such a cunning little bunny, why don’t you tell me what you’ve guessed?” She smiled at him, seemingly unaffected by the sheer magnitude of his presence.

If he was honest with himself, he was a little disappointed. Even Walburga Black couldn’t walk past him these days without a second glance. 

He rose to her challenge, however. “The Wizengamot has two main functions: it’s our legislative body and our tribunal.”

“Plain English!” Hermione scolded.

“It’s our court system for the most important trials and it votes on and passes laws,” Tom corrected himself before continuing. “I doubt you want to get yourself arrested, or have a particular set of lawbreaking co-conspirators you need help with, so I’m guessing the court function is of less interest.” He narrowed his eyes at her, throwing as much steely focus into his glance as his father had used at their first meeting. It worked; Hermione visibly shivered. His grin was feral. “You want to pass or change our laws. You need someone on the inside.”

“Correct, but incomplete,” Hermione allowed without further detail.

“It’s necessarily incomplete,” Tom argued back vehemently. “You’ve been hiding from me. Why are you here, getting an arithmancy mastery, if you want to change laws? Where were you for three years after you graduated? What even are your political values, Hermione? I doubt you’re for the conservative platform, allied as it is with pureblood supremacy, but there isn’t an organized opposition. Do you mean to create the opposition party?”

Hermione clucked her tongue like a disapproving matron and he burned. “Oh, Tom. So many questions! Here’s what I propose: let’s meet every month and talk it over, yes? I have one more year here. I’d hate to bore you with a monologue today. Wouldn’t you rather have time to read and research as you learn?”

“Fine, Hermione,” he said with a frown. “I’ll play by your rules.”

“Yes, you will,” she said sternly. It only lasted a minute before her face broke out into a pretty smile once again and she was laughing freely. “Bunny, sweet bunny, I can’t wait.” She stood up and walked over to his side, where she knelt to come closer to his eye level. Hermione put a gentle hand up to his cheek and cupped it for a second before running her fingers playfully through his perfect hair.

“Hey!” he objected, frantically sitting up and attempting to rearrange his waves. “I just combed those this morning and I still have a study session with Thoros this afternoon!” He didn’t exactly need to look perfect for Thor, but it was the first weekend of term. Everyone would be watching him.

“Vain as ever, Tom.”

“I learned from you,” he challenged her.

She giggled back. “Mmm. I thought I taught you to hide it better?”

“It’s just the two of us,” he practically whined. He couldn’t really be mad; she was stunning when she was playful, all smiles and rosy cheeks and free-flowing curls.

“So it is,” she said, resettling herself across the room. “Tell me about your NEWT plans, Tom,” Hermione prompted, “Professor Slughorn has bragged about your OWL results all summer. I heard you surpassed many of my scores.” They spent the rest of their morning in mild conversation about his schooling.

* * *

Tom returned from a meeting with Hermione on a Saturday morning in late autumn with his head in the clouds, only to be grounded by Thoros Nott. Nott, soft from sleep and only recently awake, gestured lazily for Tom to join him.

“I’m dressed, Thoros,” he sneered. “You’d have me wrinkle my trousers.”

“Then get undressed, you poncy git,” his friend shot back. “D’you have better plans?”

Tom grumbled but acquiesced, and with the whisper of fabric and clink of his belt buckle, he undressed, neatly folded his shirt and trousers, and laid them on his own, made bed. In his undershirt, pants, and stocking-feet, he slipped under the blankets next to Nott, who rearranged himself like a heated blanket over Tom.

“You can’t trap me here and go back to sleep, Nott,” he threatened half-heartedly. His head was still full of thoughts of Hermione and her ideas, and truthfully, Tom could spend a day stewing on them while he kept his friend company. It just rankled to be tricked into the arrangement.

Thoros only mumbled into Tom’s shoulder, apparently halfway back to dreaming.

Across the room, Antonin laughed, “You can warm my bed, zaichik!”

This moved Nott into action, and sitting up abruptly, he shouted back, “Find a girl if Rosier won’t have you, Antonin,” before drawing the curtains around them and plunging them into a dim privacy.

“The curtains don’t do anything but make it dark, you know,” Tom said with a raised eyebrow as he cast a series of muffling and privacy charms. Thoros rolled his eyes but drew out his wand and sent a ball of light up to the top of the bed so they weren’t in near-darkness any longer.

The boys settled back down, Tom propped against the headboard with a pillow behind him and Thoros using Tom’s shoulder as his own pillow, his leg and arm thrown over the other boy as well. As they got older, even the generously-sized dorm beds required some creative arranging to fit two bodies.

Thoros smelled slightly sour, like morning sweat and breath and an unwashed male body. It was a familiar, comforting scent—like Tom’s own, but different, a musk that had permeated the air of the boys’ dorm since third year. It was home more than any other smell.

Tom was struck, then, by how clean and sterile Hermione’s sitting room smelled. He couldn’t recall the exact blend of scents that made up Hermione’s Head Girl dorm, but there had been something fruity from her toiletries, the minty sweetness of her toothpaste, and maybe something else? Spice from a scented candle? It was an indistinct memory, but he knew there had been a unique blend that identified the place as her own. He wondered if her current bedroom smelled like that now. 

“I’m awake because of you,” Thoros grumbled beneath him. “Are you going to tell me what’s made you so distracted today?”

Tom sighed and looked down at his friend’s disheveled hair, his wavy light brown fringe falling over his hazel eyes without the stiff gel to keep it pushed back. The prat could read his moods too well. 

“Thor, your father holds your family’s Wizengamot seat, right?” Tom asked by way of deflection.

“Yes, after grandfather stepped down a few years ago. Why?”

Tom’s follow-up question was stark. “How does he use it?” 

He felt Thoros take a deep breath before responding, his ribcage expanding briefly to press against Tom’s side. “That’s a big question. Er. He votes to pass laws, I suppose.” Thoros would never speak so uncertainly in front of anyone else.

It wasn’t enough of an answer, though, and both boys knew that. “What sorts of laws does he vote in favor of, Thor?”

“I think it might be more accurate to discuss what sorts of laws he votes against, honestly,” his friend mused. “That’s what he talks about most often. He was particularly upset about something to do with Beauxbatons refugees recently.”

“What about them?” Tom’s voice was sharper than he intended, and he tightened his arm around Nott instinctively to keep the boy from pulling back.

“Well, with Grindelwald’s occupation expanding into Western Europe, some of the families of students at Beauxbatons are concerned about their children not being able to return to school,” Thoros began. “And your Muggle war was already an obstacle for some of the mixed and Muggle families, I’ve heard. Father said the Wizengamot was considering whether Hogwarts should be… doing something about that.”

It made sense. There were one or two refugees from the continent that started at Hogwarts every year, but most of those students were young and most came from families with connections to Great Britain. There must be many more school-aged witches and wizards who were displaced from their homes—Lord, Tom had nearly been, and he came from London.

“They wouldn’t have been purebloods, would they?” he asked with a sinking feeling.

“No, they would not,” Thoros agreed quietly. “The European purebloods are safe from Grindelwald.”

“How many voted against this?” Tom had to know. The governing body was 48 members strong; what fraction had left these students to rot?

“I—I don’t know, Tom.” Thoros whimpered as Tom’s grip tightened around him to the point of insistence. “Over half. The law didn’t pass. It would have to be over half.”

Tom ran his fingers through Thoros’ hair in a soothing motion like he used to do for the youngest children at Wool’s, back before war had sent them to the countryside. He was sorry to have scared his friend. It wasn’t his goal. He just _needed_ to know that the Wizengamot had condemned magical blood to die on the continent because it wasn’t pure enough to add to their own population.

“It’s all like that, isn’t it? Everything your father supports, or doesn’t support—it comes back to keeping the old families comfortable.” His tone was dark, unnaturally moody for a clear December morning. Normally, Thoros was the friend who could prevent Tom from descending into an overblown sulk, not kickstart one.

Nott sighed and pulled his leg around Tom further, surrounding his friend fully. The weight and pressure helped Tom’s anxiety. “You knew what world you would be walking into,” he accused. “You’ve known since first year. You’re going to use your seat to change things, aren’t you?”

“I’m a Slytherin,” Tom said with false confidence. “Anything less would be an insult. Why aren’t the other representatives more ambitious with their power?”

“My father was a Ravenclaw,” Thoros revealed. “Like most good eccentrics. Plenty of pureblood families sort primarily into the other three houses.”

“Malfoys and Blacks,” Tom shot back. “And we have most of the Sacred 28 families in Slytherin at present.”

“Sure. Father left all sorts of purebloods out of his registry, though. The Potters and the Browns, for example. He said their names were too Muggle, but that’s horse shite, pardon,” Thoros excused his rare expletive, “everyone knows those families have been pure for centuries. You can’t help your surname. Plus, the person who holds the family Wizengamot seat might be someone who married in. It’s Abraxas’ grandmother in the Malfoy seat, you know. His grandfather managed the family’s assets, like his father does now.” He let a beat of silence pass between them before asking: “Does your father play a role in the Muggle government?”

It wasn’t a forbidden topic, but it wasn’t a common one, either. All of his Slytherin dormmates knew about Tom’s father—it would have been too much work to try and hide his sudden access to money and new school supplies—but only Thoros had heard about that summer week in any depth, and even then, only in bits. Thoros had taken to studying languages with Tom, which he claimed would help him with his runes specialization after Hogwarts. Tom wasn’t sure if his friend was lying to save his feelings or earnestly wanted to learn multiple languages, but they’d made a perfect study unit for over three years, so he was hardly going to turn down Thoros now.

Even so, Tom wasn’t keen on digging into the Riddle family legacy, not that he knew much about it. “No. There’s just…” he gestured impotently with the hand not wrapped around his friend, “more of them. It’s more common to be a wealthy Muggle with no role in the government.”

“That’s so strange,” Nott wondered aloud. “I can’t imagine there being so many people to know. How would you determine who is important?”

“Their appearance, partially. But it’s a different system of manners, overall. Muggles tend to assume anyone could be important unless they’re so obviously not that it’s beyond any doubt. And some cultures—the Americans—don’t even have the good sense to figure that much.” Tom recalled those American troops he would run across in London, the army boys that would dance with any girl and generously offer their chocolate bar to any street rat who looked like he needed cheering. What an absurd country. 

Thoros laughed. “That sounds bizarre, but if you want it, I’ll vote your Muggle manners into law when I’m on the Wizengamot in forty years.”

“Forty years?” Tom moaned.

“And not a day sooner,” Thoros nodded. “I’m going into runes and the only way you’ll tear me out of that is when father’s dead. If I didn’t have to marry someone to have an heir, I’d make my child do it instead. I might still marry and have a child, if it keeps me out of politics.” He poked Tom threateningly between the ribs to indicate just how little he wanted to do with that mess.

Tom shook his head dismissively. “You lot and your heirs.”

“ _You_ lot and _your_ heirs, Tom. You’re some fancy git on both sides,” Nott jabbed back as he butted his head into Tom’s shoulder.

“I have to learn how to ride a horse next summer, Thor. What’s even the point? Muggles don’t ride horses anymore,” he complained idly.

“I’m decent on a horse, actually.” Thoros looked up at Tom, and Tom wondered why his friend ever wore his hair pushed back. It looked so much nicer when it was loose. “If your father isn’t too much of a prick, have me over. I want to see how the Muggles do it.”

“Mmm,” Tom stroked his hand through his friend’s hair, arranging it more neatly into a style like his own. “Horses, yes, whatever. Wear it like this, Thor. You look less like a prat.”

“You _arse_ —” he started, but Thor’s abortive attempt to throttle Tom was interrupted by Avery throwing open Nott’s bed hangings.

“Quidditch day, you tossers! Get your green and silver and get yourselves to the pitch, we’re playing the Gryffindorks,” the blond yelled at them. “Goodness.” He blinked. “You’re both not dressed yet? It’s half noon, lazy gits.”

With a glance of mutual agreement, Tom and Thoros stuck Avery to the ceiling before they rose to dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Riddle Sr. I can’t help myself; the man is alive, so he’s now a character in this fic.


	8. Chapter 8

Tom had never left the castle for Christmas, and he did so this year only under duress. Hermione told him he shouldn’t risk his stipend and inheritance just to avoid his father—the man was effectively meaningless other than his money, anyway—and so he pulled himself together and got on the Express in late December. Nott tried to distract him with a study session and shared sweets in their private compartment, but it was no use; Tom was distraught.

No matter how idyllic the winter festivities in the Riddle country manor, he moped his way through the holidays alone. If he had stayed at the castle, he would have had a few days with Hermione. He took savage delight in the disruption of owls delivering packages from his dormmates. The Malfoy eagle owl shat on Mary Riddle’s table runner during breakfast on the 23rd and Tom laughed so long and so hard that he thought his mind might have broken. Abraxas wouldn’t have sent anything more meaningful than a card and some chocolates, but he could have mailed Tom a lump of coal if it meant watching the Riddle family in complete disarray over another animal intrusion into their fusty Muggle lifestyle.

He was relieved to discover that there was no expectation that he would attend a Christmas mass. His grandparents headed out on the morning of the holiday, but his father seemed to have a longstanding tradition of not attending, and so paved the way for Tom to avoid that obligation. He was expected to open his gifts in front of the Riddles in some sad mockery of family togetherness, which he did begrudgingly. He let loose a few chocolate frogs—accidentally, of course—to hop around the overwarm room, leaving brown footprints on the ivory wool carpets as he dispassionately unwrapped his gifts.

Thoros came through with a French text about runes, clearly meant as a bribe so that they could study it together, and Tom couldn’t help a smile when he found Hermione’s gift of a brand-new Slytherin scarf. True, he had numerous scarves made by his own hand, but this one acknowledged their shared house, and it was from her. For that fact alone, he would cherish it.

The gifts from the Riddles were bafflingly varied and all equally impersonal, highlighting just how little they knew about Tom. He wondered why they even bothered. He received a mix of fine clothing, Muggle sporting gear, and home items including a shave kit and an heirloom quilt. Tom couldn’t bring himself to waste any of it—it all would find its use—but despite the lavish expense, it was no more meaningful than the box of toffee from Lestrange. He grunted out a “thank you” and retreated until dinner.

His days passed in that strange isolation endemic to Riddle Manor, with the exception of another harried owl crashing into the dining room two days before his birthday. Thoros had sent a letter asking to confirm if Tom had received his birthday present, sent via forwarding service through the Muggle post, which thoroughly ruined the surprise when his cufflinks arrived on his actual birthday. Still, Nott’s eagerness and miscalculation made him smile. The cufflinks were platinum and emerald, far too much and yet a mere trinket for a pureblood family like Nott’s, a true celebration of Tom reaching the wizarding age of majority. Hermione sent a card through the post with a sincere note expressing her pride and admiration, and he valued it just as much.

His father gifted him a watch. 

Tom was surprised that the man even knew his birthday. Logically, he must, if he signed legal paperwork to adopt Tom. But to have remembered—that was unanticipated. 

The timepiece was expensive and Muggle and everything one might expect a man in the Riddle family to wear, with one notable exception: the back was engraved with “Lord Gaunt.”

He tried to put it out of mind. Really, truly, Tom attempted to see this as another unwanted obligation. If anyone in his life should have gifted him a watch for his coming-of-age, it should have been Hermione. That was an unfair expectation of her, he knew, and he didn’t really want her to think of herself as his guardian—legally, she was no longer—but it should have been her, all the same.

It wasn’t. It was his biological father.

“I know that your kind view age 17 as the age of majority,” the man had said when he handed it over. “I hope that a watch is also considered a traditional gift for wizards.”

When Tom opened it, he almost closed the box again without touching the thing. His father stopped him by placing a hand on his wrist, and though Tom flinched away, the older man pretended not to notice.

“As this is for the magical side of your heritage, I thought the inscription should reflect that. I will think of something less… fantastical for your 18th birthday.” He looked over his son with an inscrutable expression. “Go on, flip it over.”

Tom felt like he had taken a blow when he first read the engraving, but his father let the silence between them stand as he fastened the watch around his son’s right wrist. Somehow, the man had even noticed he was left-handed.

“I’ve been reading your school textbooks, since you left them in the library,” the older man changed subjects once they had each safely withdrawn back to a more comfortable distance. His tone was slightly scolding. “You should take care to keep those out of sight; I was told that there are laws against telling non-family about your magic.” How strange, for his Muggle father to be chastising him over the Statute of Secrecy.

Upset at the rebuke, Tom lashed out. “Why bother? Your kind can’t understand any of it. You don’t have the _capability_.” His voice oozed venom as he fixed his flinty glare out the window at the cold landscape before them. It had snowed for the holidays, and with the clear skies warming the top layer each day, a subtle sheet of ice had formed over everything. Tom was like that ice, cold and crackling.

“You’re right. I can’t understand most of the technical details,” his father said unemotionally. “However, I can draw my own conclusions. I can contextualize your fields. I may not know what an ashwinder egg is, or how to prepare one, but I can read the effects of your potions all the same.” Here, he turned to face Tom, his cold, blue eyes staring into his son’s face as though he was looking for something. Tom couldn’t begin to guess what.

“I used to love the smell of fresh snowfall,” the older man stated, as though it wasn’t a complete non-sequitur. “When I was younger, winter was my favorite season. I would take a horse out and ride after the snowstorms broke.” He was still staring, unnervingly, at Tom. “I haven’t been able to enjoy that since your mother.” And just like that, as if nothing unusual had transpired, he left the room.

Tom didn’t know what to make of the strange birthday conversation. He wasn’t sure how to interpret the carefully-positioned copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ sitting alone in his reading nook in the library. He closed himself off to the world, spending his days bundled in wool and lying in the deep snow drifts on their lawn, now that he could use a warming charm without the whole Ministry knocking down his door, rather than lurking inside the manor and risking another uncomfortable encounter with his father. He felt like the man was trying to imply something. Tom did not want his father’s implications, so he turned off the analytical part of his brain with blistering cold and waited out the days of break instead.

* * *

In late February, Hermione conscripted Tom into editing her thesis. He was the top student in arithmancy, and he preened at the honor. She needed another set of eyes to check her calculations; he needed a reason to spend more time with her. 

As he performed her long division by hand one evening, Hermione commented on his watch. “Are you going to tell me about this,” she cradled his right wrist in her hands, “little rabbit? I can’t believe you’ve reduced me to asking.” She smirked at him, not truly offended.

Tom’s blush would have been brighter if he hadn’t been distracted by her work. Finishing a calculation, he marked his place with a note to himself and looked down at their joined hands; it was a welcome sight. “My father,” he barely stumbled over the word, “presented it to me for my birthday. It’s traditional,” he excused, as if she didn’t already know.

“And you’re still wearing it?” She looked confused for a minute before resolve flitted across her face and she unclasped the watch from his wrist. She was too quick for him to stop, and soon she was reading the inscription aloud. “‘Lord Gaunt?’ I didn’t think that man cared.”

Tom snatched it back from her—he couldn’t say why, but it felt wrong to let someone else hold the gift. He was Lord Gaunt. It was his alone. “Yes, well, it helps me fit in with the other boys.”

“The other young men,” she corrected him with a smile. “You’re 17, now, bunny. Full-grown, at least legally.”

He was. Legal, that is. Tom was of age, an adult in the wizarding world, the only one that really mattered, and… Hermione acknowledged that. Hot, sick anxiety twisted in his gut at the thought. Tom had been waiting for this for almost a year: the moment that he could persuade Hermione to think of him as something more than the child she had helped way back in the day.

Why not seize this moment? He was a tall, handsome man—his appeal was undeniable. Hermione was older than him, but still objectively a young woman, and their age difference would only matter less as time went on. She was gorgeous in her maturity; age suited her, as she grew into the type of confident allure that an intelligent woman who knew her own worth could have. She was physically arresting, with her long, curly hair and big, deceptively-innocent eyes. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, if ever there was one.

And that was her appeal to Tom, more than anything. Lust was pedestrian. He was attracted to her, of course, and her beauty only helped, but more than wanting to fuck her, he wanted to consume her. He would deny this to anyone his age. He was supposed to want nothing more than a snog and a shag at this point. He was supposed to be motivated by baser instinct. Maybe something was broken within Tom, because his most primal urge was to set fire to Hermione, to swallow her whole, to absorb her very essence until she was subsumed by him. Tom wanted all of her. 

He might have a good shot at it, too. She had denied all suitors but took care to spend time with him. Her continual willingness to make space for Tom, to touch Tom, to smile for Tom, must mean something. He hoped, desperately, it meant something.

It was that blind desire that led Tom to forget her caginess, to forget that she still hadn’t revealed so much about herself. He knew her political leanings by now, of course. Radical progressive policies danced in her head, each more outlandish than the last, strung together with nothing more than the need to watch the old guard burn as the underclass was elevated. Some nights, he wasn’t sure which part was more important to Hermione—would she be willing to destroy everything, if it meant the purebloods would be eradicated? No matter, not now. He was a year and a half from taking up his seat in the Wizengamot, she was at least that far off from having concrete legislation to put before the body, and if Tom trusted anything about Hermione, it was her enduring empathy.

She had protected him, after all.

Steeling himself by refastening the watch around his wrist, he cleared his throat and spoke in the even, low tone that set Slytherin girls on edge. “Hermione, would you go with me to Hogsmeade this weekend?”

She looked at him and blinked. He refrained from doing the same. Tom Riddle, Lord Gaunt, grit his teeth and waited for the first woman he had ever asked out to reject him.

“Oh, rabbit,” she hedged. He sighed and looked away. “Let’s talk after you graduate, okay?” She reached for his hand again and laced her fingers with his. “I’ll be leaving in a few more months and you have your NEWT year to worry about. You don’t need the burden of an old maid like me.”

“I want to, Hermione,” he laid himself open against all Slytherin instinct. “I want to plan around you. I know you’re planning around me,” he accused her unerringly, and she had the decency to look ashamed. “I deserve that much in return.”

“Not while you’re in school,” she put her foot down. “I will come to you when you’ve graduated.”

Straightening his sleeve over his refastened watch with tight precision, Tom avoided her gaze. He stood mechanically, rigidly walking to her door to let himself out. She didn't stop him. He didn’t pause as he left.

* * *

Distance grew between Tom and Hermione through the spring term, so similarly to five years prior. He still came to her regularly—she didn’t release him from his obligations to her thesis work, though now, he wished she would have. Tom never stopped spending one Saturday morning each month with her as arranged. Her grand visions of reform had less lustre, admittedly. It was difficult not to feel resentful of the plans that so occupied her mind when he was relegated to the space she had set aside for an eleven-year-old child. 

It was difficult be kept in waiting. And, make no mistake, that was what it was. With his newfound awareness of Hermione, borne of the past year of her scheming, he could feel her eyes on him whenever he talked to the girls in his year. 

She was jealous of his attentions. She expected him to wait. It was plain in how she gently touched his cheek in greeting, and how she brushed against him as he reviewed her numbers. In how she smiled so sweetly and pouted her pink lips. Worst of all, his traitorous body couldn’t help but respond. He would catch himself leaning over her to smell her hair when they hugged goodbye and remembering the feel of her in the privacy of his dorm. This wasn’t his primary interest in Hermione, but it was the most unignorable in his reality, and he resented the pull. 

Tom threw himself more avidly into his studies and schoolwork when he wasn’t around Hermione. He made plans for Nott to spend some weeks with him in the summer. He even—briefly, so briefly—considered escaping to Riddle Manor for the spring hols before realizing that a Slytherin shouldn’t be that cowardly. Tom spent it holed up in his dorm room instead.

Nothing was unavoidable, however, and Hermione cornered him during the final week of term. After greeting him with a hug and light fingers brushing his cheek, which caused him to stiffen and frown so that he didn’t embarrass himself by reciprocating the gesture of affection, she spoke.

“It’s my last full day on campus, little rabbit,” she teased rather than acknowledge his slight. “You won’t see me for a year, will you miss me?”

He looked at her with the most unamused expression that he could manage. With his height advantage and severe manner, it was something to behold, and she stepped back with a frown of her own.

“Still bitter, then, Tom.” He didn’t move. “I will find you next summer. Will you be ready for that?” She matched his look with a glare, crossing her arms loosely as she closed herself off.

He rolled his eyes and turned to lean back against the cool stones of the castle wall, fitting himself into the hollow space between a statue and a tapestry as though he might be able to disappear into the clutter of Hogwarts’ decorations. Certainly, it would be easier to become an animate suit of armor than to face Hermione Granger when she was on a warpath.

“I don’t like when you act as though I’m a child, Hermione,” he said deliberately, pronouncing her name with a precision that emphasized his maturity. He was not the orphan boy from East London dropping the ‘h’ any longer. “I’ll expect you next year, but I will meet you as an equal partner. You will not patronize me. You will not hide from me. Take a year to clean yourself up; bury whatever bodies you don’t want me to see, because when you come to me,” he turned his head to look into her wide, brown eyes, “I will expect nothing less than perfection in exchange for the use of my position.”

Hermione’s response was unaffected, but he could see the faint tremor in the firm line of her shoulders. If she relaxed her posture, she might have hidden the sign. “Okay, rabbit.”

He walked away from that interaction with Hermione feeling lighter than he had in over a year.

* * *

The thought of spending a full summer at Riddle Manor was less daunting than it ought to have been. Tom hadn’t been allowed to sulk in his room this time, as his father had quite pointedly dragged him out to the stables on his first day back.

“Your friend knows how to ride,” he calmly reminded Tom. “You should know the basics when he gets here, or how will you ride with him?” 

Tom dressed himself in the fripperies of the sport, feeling patently absurd in the way only a city rat could, and grit his teeth through his father’s surprisingly-grueling lessons. He was a slim, fit young man in the eyes of the wizarding world, but Tom Riddle Sr. seemed to look at his thin limbs and find them lacking. 

“Check your diagonal!” the man would holler, and Tom would sit for two beats of the trot automatically, only to have his father shout it again until he actually looked down at his horse’s shoulder and learned the movement. When he was exhausted from a lesson, thighs trembling with the strain of bearing his own weight for two hours, Riddle Sr. would demand that he wipe down his tack and brush his horse before he was allowed to collapse into a hay bale and weep. At least the horses were pleasant company, snuffling his pockets for the carrots he snuck from the manor’s kitchen.

He steadily improved, though, and by mid-July he could handle small jumps without tipping forward onto his horse’s neck, and his seat was almost deep enough for a comfortable canter. He might never be the natural equestrian that his father was—and that man was, he could admit, a thing of elegance in the saddle—but he was proficient enough to be allowed out on the grounds without an escort.

Tom took to spending afternoons in the field that stretched north of their manor, always avoiding the eastern corner, just to get away from everyone. Thistle, his gelding—he owned a horse!—would yank the tall grass from the meadow while he sat on a blanket and read under a conjured shade. It was more pleasant than he would ever admit.

Summer was improved by the arrival of Thoros. Thor’s father didn’t know he was spending his summer with a half-blood in a Muggle home, of course. Cantankerus Nott was only told that his son’s friend was Lord Gaunt, and Thor would be spending time at his ancestral home. The best lies were a restatement of the truth, after all.

Thor was unnervingly gracious to his Riddle hosts. “Good morning, ma’am,” he would greet Mary every day over breakfast, enquiring after her social plans for the day. “How’s the business, sir,” he would defer to Thomas during dinner, keeping the oldest Riddle man occupied with familiar topics. With Tom Riddle Sr., he talked horses. Tom couldn’t find it in his heart to resent his friend, though, when his politeness smoothed over the discomfort and dysfunction that normally weighed so heavily on Riddle Manor.

Both boys had earned their apparition license during the past spring, at Hogwarts, and Tom took Thoros out to the back lawn one day of his visit to practice his side-along. The first few tries were rough, leaving poor Thor retching into the grass, but he was a good sport and after a half-dozen repetitions Tom started twisting them through space less disruptively.

As he performed his next quarter turn, Nott started to speak, “You know, Tom,”

_Pop._ They reappeared twenty feet away.

“With how much we’re spinning,” Nott continued before the next movement had been completed.

_Pop!_ Noisier that time, and they were clear across the lawn.

“It’s almost like dancing,” he finished on their reappearance.

Tom laughed at his friend. “I don’t know the first thing about dancing, Nott.”

Thoros repositioned himself in front of his friend, rather than to his side. “You’re apparating, so you’ll lead. Put your arm on me here,” he pulled Tom’s hand to his waist, “and hold my other hand,” he linked their fingers together, “and I’ll hang on to your shoulder for dear life.” Thoros shot Tom a wry smirk as the other boy scoffed at his lack of faith. “Now keep spinning us! I heard noise on your last attempt.”

A hushed pop rang out through the grounds, this time, as Tom spun them again. “Better now, you insufferable git?” Another swirl, and Tom’s hand tightened within Thoros’ hold as they tore through space to land in front of the stables. “I think that one was nearly silent, good enough for you, yet?” Tom pulled his friend closer and spun them again, reappearing between two decorative trees. 

Thoros cackled in shocked delight. “My head’s still spinning, try harder,” he urged as they whirled through nonexistence to materialize in the middle of the lawn. “Your movements are stiff, be more fluid.”

Another quiet pop announced their transition from the open lawn to the shaded hedges bordering the manicured garden. “It’s apparition, Thor,” Tom griped as he momentarily disengaged his partner in order to roll his shoulders. “What does that advice even mean?”

With a manic gleam in his eye, Thoros grabbed Tom as the lead and spun him into a series of rapid-fire apparitions. Each was much louder than Tom’s whispering movements, but he moved with a quick grace that had Tom hanging tight to his devious friend in order to keep up. When Thoros deposited them, at last, under the shadows of the manor, Tom spoke into his friend’s shoulder. 

“Bloody hell, you could have warned me.”

“You’re not sick, though, are you?” Thoros grinned.

Tom scowled at his friend. “Not even a bit.”

“Well, then, Tom,” Thoros preened, “you should offer me a dance.”

Grumbling good-naturedly, Tom switched to the lead and tried to emulate his friend’s example. The first two spins were unsteady and Thoros pinched Tom in disapproval. As he continued, his movements became smoother, his shoulders loosened, and he managed apparition that was so silent and so comfortable, Thoros closed his eyes, leaned in, and enjoyed the ride.

They trudged back into the manor in the late afternoon. Tom’s father was waiting for them.

“What was that, in the yard? What were you doing?” the older man asked unexpectedly.

Tom wasn’t sure what came over him, but before Thoros could step between him and Riddle Sr. to answer, he took his father’s arm and spun them away to the yard with the precision and care that he had just perfected.

“It’s called apparition,” he said once they materialized by the stables. “We use it to travel.” Tom kept hold of his father and spun them again, reappearing by Thoros in the entrance hall, thankfully still devoid of servants. 

His father looked amazed. “You can teleport,” he murmured to himself. “That’s incredible.”

“I’m also quite good at it,” Tom replied smugly. He never indulged in discussing his magic with the Riddles; the mere thought was incomprehensible, given how Mugglish they were. Riding high on the success of this afternoon, he couldn’t resist bragging. “You would have been sick and deaf with almost anyone else.” Thoros elbowed him until he added: “Thor’s decent.”

“Decent!” his friend exclaimed, annoyed at the lack of credit. “You would have made a mess of your father before I taught you to dance.” Tom scowled and bickered back as they went to freshen up before dinner, neither boy noticing the thoughtful look that crossed Riddle Sr.’s face.

* * *

Thoros and Tom were allowed to take horses out around the grounds anytime they liked during daylight hours once Tom’s father had approved of Thor’s riding. They were on their matching Cleveland Bays, Thistle and Heather, during an early August day as the sun was still low in the sky. Thoros had cantered Heather out to the far field and Tom rushed along after him, where they were now circling their horses leisurely through the high grasses as they talked.

“But do you agree with Hermione’s goals?” Tom’s friend asked earnestly. It had been a common refrain between them this summer, now that she was gone; Tom had divulged everything he’d learned from Hermione to Thoros, and Thor hadn’t been as excited as Tom had hoped. “Most wizards and witches don’t get involved with political causes so young. We live a long time,” Thoros urged, “and there’s still decades to make a career out of it if you start in your fifties. You’re brilliant, Tom. Will you regret not getting a mastery in something? Hermione got hers. Surely you could wait a few years and pursue your own before settling into the seat.”

Tom rolled his eyes at his friend, not that Thor could see from astride his horse. Thistle picked up on his rider’s discontent and used his distraction to nab an especially tall stalk of grass. “One mastery still wouldn’t do justice to my intelligence,” he scoffed, and though it was arrogant, it was true. Tom was planning to sit all of the NEWT exams this year, even those for the classes he did not take, and he would likely break even more score records this time around. Acknowledging that Tom was intelligent was like describing God as ineffable: true, and yet pitifully inadequate. “I don’t want to waste another three years toiling underneath an instructor whose only benefit to me is that they’ve already read a reference text.”

Thoros, who had already arranged to undertake a runes mastery with an expert in Ireland, laughed at his friend’s well-deserved pride. “It’s still nice to point to, if anyone ever gets smart with you. And some careers expect one, regardless of your talent.”

“I’m committed to the life of politics,” Tom deflected. He might have considered a mastery in a different life, or at least a dedicated period of study, but arcane academic knowledge necessarily came second to practical legislation if he wanted to make a difference now. And, Lord, did Tom want to make a difference now.

“Suit yourself, but I still say it’s going to be tedious,” Thoros shot back as he circled further away, toward a distant line of trees. “Do you get input in this revolution, Tom, or are you the muscle behind Hermione’s idealism?”

Tom trotted Thistle after his friend, and Thistle complied with a sigh. “Of course I have input!” he called out. “She trusted me with her thesis, why wouldn’t she trust me with something less personal?”

“I still don’t like that she had you running her numbers,” Thoros frowned over his shoulder, and Heather veered slightly off-path in that direction. Correcting his horse, Thor continued, “A thesis is supposed to be an individual effort. Your advisor might have input, but an uncredited student is—”

“Yes, yes,” Tom cut off his friend with a glare, “I deserve a mastery for doing some long division for an overworked teacher’s aide. I know your views.” 

“I’m not suggesting she couldn’t have done it herself,” Thor placated, his hazel eyes gleaming in the sun, “just that _you_ shouldn’t have been doing it.”

“I’ll be doing as much and more when I’m Head Boy this year,” Tom replied cuttingly. “You know the Heads are delegated every professor’s grunt labor.”

“Oh, speaking of—do I still get to spend winter with you, in your special dorm?” Thoros’ tone was light and teasing, diverting them from the thornier subject of Hermione Granger’s political ambitions. “Or will you continue the tradition of your mentor and rescue some hapless first-year to take my place?”

Tom pulled Thistle up short and narrowed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was stuck somewhere between cold and anxious; it was an unnatural combination that caused his throat to rasp over his words. “What are you referencing, Thor?”

Heather was circled back so that Thoros could face his friend, his expression betraying confusion and hurt. “You—you know that we all knew you were in the Head Girl dorm with Granger, right?”

“No.” Tom’s tone was flat and controlled now, with the benefit of another minute to process this information. “I did not know that.”

“Er,” his friend stumbled, “well, that is, we did. Some of the lads thought it was—it doesn’t matter. You trust her, and it was a long time ago. I didn’t mean to… to bring up anything hurtful, Tom,” Thoros blustered his way through a half-apology, clearly unsure whether apologizing would make this better or worse.

Tom opened his mouth to snap back, wounded that something he’d held as private for so many years had never actually been so, when he was interrupted by thundering hooves.

“Boys!” his father yelled out at them as his chestnut Thoroughbred, Madge, galloped closer. “Away from that part of the property, quickly!”

Riddle Sr. brought his mare around behind them, putting himself between the treeline that denoted the edge of the Riddle grounds and the two teens on their horses. He looked anxiously at a dense copse some ten metres away as he tried to usher them back.

“Father, what’s—” Tom began, so shocked by the sudden appearance of the man that he let the familiar level of address slip by.

Just as he spoke, a figure emerged from the overgrown trees. Whether he had been summoned by Riddle Sr.’s loud exclamation or had been lying in wait as the boys spoke, the man was clearly agitated when he saw the faces of the two Toms.

He pulled a wand from his sleeve and began to hiss.

Quick as a wink, Tom and Thoros blasted the man off his feet with their own magic. Thoros had drawn and stunned him; Tom had wandlessly bound the man. His father looked pale.

“That’s him,” he whispered in a daze, half to himself. “That’s Gaunt. That’s her—her brother.”

That was Tom’s _uncle_. He turned as pale as his father at the realization. That meant the hissing was probably the beginnings of something in parseltonuge. He’d never met another speaker. He’d go a lifetime without, if it meant never seeing someone as wretched and deranged as the slumped-over man that lay before them.

Thoros took the lead and summoned aurors, yet another example of something the magically-raised children were taught how to do but Muggleborns never were. The dour men in their Ministry-approved uniforms talked quietly with Thoros for a while before approaching either Tom or his father, who had both dismounted and were standing silently, watching Morfin Gaunt lying limply in his restraints. Tom completed his interview with a sandy-haired auror in a daze, murmuring his responses with a touch of that rough, inner-city accent that slipped out whenever he couldn’t concentrate enough to keep up appearances. 

He only snapped out of it when the feckless Ministry cunts made to Obliviate Riddle Sr. Tom screamed at them, startling Madge into a shrill whinny, saying, “That man planned to attack my father! You won’t take away his memories when it’s that piece of shite who should be punished.”

The other auror, a redhead, tried to calm Tom down with a restatement of protocol. “We will be bringing Morfin Gaunt into custody, but it’s regulation to remove evidence of magical attacks from a Muggle’s mind. Son, we need you to step aside.”

Tom saw red. Drawing himself up to his full height, and pulling the stamping and snorting Thistle close so that his father was fully protected from all sides, he rejected their authority in no uncertain terms.

“I, Tom Riddle, Lord Gaunt, member of the Wizengamot, will not allow you to Obliviate my father, Tom Riddle, Senior.” He sneered at the pathetic Ministry men in front of him. “If you’d like to try your luck with me, do be my guest.”

They took their prisoner and left.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I’ve noticed a ton of hits on this story over the past few days, thanks so much for reading! I’d love to hear from you, leave a comment if you’re reading and let me know what you think.
> 
> This chapter and the next mark a major turning point in our progression, as they’re the last chapter at Hogwarts and the first with Tom as a full, adult wizard. I’ll be putting some more in-depth meta thoughts about the story over on my tumblr, if you’re interested.
> 
> Thanks for reading, your kudos, comments, and everything! I appreciate your support so much. ☺️

Seventh year promised to be Tom’s most comfortable yet. Though Hermione had left him, again, he was no longer the friendless and pathetic second-year struggling to fit in—he was the gloried Head Boy, top student, and had the support of a true friend in Thoros Nott, plus his circle of acquaintances in Slytherin. Tom was more than prepared for his NEWTs, and his study schedule allowed time for his Head duties and recreation. Hell, Tom had a guaranteed job when he graduated and a home to return to for the holidays. 

It felt like someone else’s life, but Tom knew a good thing when he saw it, and he would keep hold of these advantages until someone yanked them away.

There was no overt bullying based on blood status within Slytherin during Tom’s tenure as Head Boy. He couldn’t do much about implicit discrimination; goodness knew that was too insidious. But how could someone expect to get away with brazen taunts when Tom Riddle, former mudblood turned Lord Gaunt of the Wizengamot, lurked the dorm halls? 

It started with a reprimand to Avery’s first-year sister. The girl had been picking on her half-blood yearmate, a Yaxley bastard in the technical sense, who had come to Tom with red eyes and her nose in the air. Wizard-raised children, even the half-bloods, had so much composure. Tom still marvelled at it. He must have absolutely terrified the establishment in his first year with his differences. 

So Tom went to the Avery girl and impressed upon her that blood was a tricky thing, and the Slytherin way was to stick together because in this house, you build a network of allies, not enemies, with your peers. You never know who you’ll need backing you, as an adult. Look at his life. It would have been stupid for her brother to make an enemy of Tom Riddle, right? And the girl nodded and took the lecture, as she should have. 

Avery pulled him aside to thank him a week later.

“Say, Tom,” the blond started, “I appreciate you talking to my sister.”

“I’m the Head Boy,” Tom replied, the implicit meaning being that it was his duty.

“She’s had a rough time adjusting to Hogwarts,” Avery continued. “Misses our mum, you see. You talked some sense into her. I was worried she might, well,” Avery paused, unsure how to convey his meaning without egregiously insulting his sibling, “She might make more enemies than friends and not see it until too late.”

“How fortunate for her,” Tom said mildly. He was not particularly interested in rescuing purebloods from themselves.

“I mean it, Tom.” Avery looked at him earnestly. Their relationship wasn’t especially close, but Avery had been the type of guy to include Tom in group activities these past few years. He would hustle the whole year of boys out to quidditch games and get them together for a night of illicit drinking a few times a year. He was a group-minded fellow, and once Tom had been accepted—even if that came too late, and after too many years of hurt—Avery had made sure that was clear. “Granger should have knocked the same sense into me when I was a firstie. Don’t know that I would have listened, but. You’re a good sort to know.”

Tom wasn’t sure exactly how to respond to that. “Thanks, Avery,” he supplied after a moment’s consideration.

“Oh, one more thing—” Avery had turned to leave, and spoke over his shoulder now “—my cousin was one of those aurors who showed up at your father’s place this summer. You handled that correctly. I think there will be a lot of eyes on you when you take up your seat next year.”

Hints of that future followed him in whispers through the halls of Hogwarts that year. He would catch someone staring at him between classes or at mealtimes, and there were only ever three possible reasons why: because he was handsome, because he was Head Boy, or because he was Lord Gaunt. More often than he would have liked, it was the third.

Slughorn was insufferable, of course. Tom had sat through years of Slug Club without comment, being shown off like a prized goat to this or that visiting academic, athlete, or politician, but never before had he been the person Professor Slughorn was attempting to impress. Perhaps it was the rumors of how he’d exerted his power this summer, or perhaps it was the undeniable reality that he was less than a full year from taking up the robes of the Wizengamot, but the pestilent old slug, himself only a member of a cadet branch of the Slughorn family, was intent to ingratiate himself as Tom’s dearly beloved mentor. He paraded his most star-studded array of former students past Tom that year, and though Tom abused the opportunity to get his name in their heads as much as possible, he would never give an inch with his head of house. 

That man had turned a blind eye to years of bullying and privation. Tom might not be completely unsentimental, but he had no reason to be forgiving of that man, either.

He made no secret of it among his snakes. “Come to me first,” he promised his fellow Slytherins early in the fall term, “and I or one of the upper-year students will sort out your troubles. We take care of our own,” Tom vowed, “we don’t need a professor to step in.” It might have been different, if they had a head of house like the formidable Professor Merrythought, of Hufflepuff, or even—Tom could admit—Dumbledore and his lions, but Slughorn wouldn’t be the instructor to teach children to trust adults. 

So he patched up his housemates’ scrapes and undid their jinxes. He arranged for a stock of dittany in one of the cupboards of the common room and taught the upper-years how to apply it. He hugged the youngest ones when they cried over troubles at home, like when Tabitha lost her family cat, and congratulated the struggling students when they eked out an Acceptable on their essays. For the wider school Tom was less hands-on, but he took his duties no less seriously.

He was perfect. He had trained himself for this role since Head Girl Hermione Granger had pulled him aside in his first year, and he had vowed to be even better than his mentor. He was.

* * *

Faster than Tom could anticipate, it was time for winter break, and time for him to return to Riddle Manor. He wouldn’t have anticipated being so… comfortable with returning to his Muggle family home for school holidays, a year ago, but his relationship with his father had shifted after Morfin Gaunt’s arrest and so he no longer felt the same trepidation about two weeks with his remaining parent and grandparents.

Christmas was a happier holiday, this year. He arranged to keep one of the dining room windows open in the morning, blocking out the chill and wind with a spell, so that the owl post from his friends was less disruptive. Riddle Sr. intercepted the Malfoy owl with a bit of bacon, preventing a repeat of last year’s demonstration of dissatisfaction from the temperamental thing. Tom, flush with Riddle family money, sent off his own gifts to each of the boys in his year for the first time. He kept up with socks for Thor, of course, which made Grandmother Mary smile. They’d taken to knitting together some evenings.

Tom’s family’s gifts were much more meaningful this time. He received yarn and a set of matching needles in all sizes from his grandmother, who had noticed the found nature of his prior supplies. He would actually use those. His father had bought new tack for Thistle in black leather, with Slytherin house colors for his saddle pad, stable blanket, and halter, and Tom was earnestly excited to see his horse decked out in the colors of his ancient lineage. Perhaps most surprisingly, his grandfather, Thomas, had a monogrammed travel bag made for him. Tom traced the ‘M’ of his middle name reverently—it must have cost the man something to acknowledge Marvolo as his grandson’s name. Tom knew acceptance when he saw it; he was too familiar with rejection not to treasure the gesture.

The morning of his 18th birthday found Tom lying on his back in a snowdrift on the lawn of Riddle Manor. He hadn’t escaped the manor like this yet, this year, but birthdays were difficult for Tom, the anniversary of his own challenging existence and his mother’s death, and he chased the bracing cold to get out of his own head.

Footsteps crunched behind him, and with a heaving sigh, his father sat in the snow to his left.

“Happy birthday, Tom,” the older man said quietly, his breath frosting in the corner of Tom’s view. “How can you stand it out here?”

Tom shot a powerful warming charm at his father. “Oh, magic. I should have figured.” Riddle Sr. laughed to himself. It didn’t sound like true amusement.

This day must not be easy for him, either, Tom thought. “Do you remember what you said to me last year?” he asked his father.

“Yes.” Simple, succinct, clear. 

“What did you mean by that?” Tom pried further. For once, he didn’t want to be the smartest man in the room, able to piece together any puzzle put in front of him. He wanted someone else to feed him the answer. Guessing would be terrible if he was wrong, and Tom badly wanted to be wrong about this.

“I think you know what I meant, son,” his father answered.

“Humor me. It’s my birthday.” Tom turned his head and looked up at his father’s patrician face, a mirror image of his own. “And it’s the anniversary of her death. You owe me this much.” He whispered this much more quietly.

“I’m not a wizard,” his father began, and Tom snorted. “I can’t be sure. However… I didn’t know your mother until the day before I married her, and yet I had never felt more enamored of someone than when we were married. Isn’t that queer?” Riddle Sr. looked out across the grounds, breathing frigid air for a minute before he spoke again. “And she smelled like love. All the time. She smelled like everything I had ever loved, until the day she told me she could be with child. On that day, she only smelled like a strange woman.”

There were things left unsaid in that short description. For his mother to have known she could be pregnant, she would have to be at least two months along—at a minimum, Tom knew his parents must have been married for two months. His father spent months with someone he still described as a strange woman.

The Riddles never spoke of this marriage. His grandparents and father seemed content to pretend that it hadn’t happened, that Tom had appeared on their doorstep at 16 and nothing at all had preceded that event, and it itched at him. There were hints of something more in the past. Books on all sorts of therapies and psychology were in the family library, far too many for a family with a passing interest in broad academic topics. His father’s behavior would stutter, sometimes, around unfamiliar women and especially on the few occasions that he and Hermione had been in the same location, or that her name would come up in conversation. The man had a clear and unconscious preference for pouring his own drinks—it wasn’t rational, he would use the same pitcher or bottle as the servant had, but he always refused the offer for someone else to pour. 

Tom didn’t want to contemplate this. It was uncomfortable, and his mind only ever veered in dangerous directions when he tried, so he cut himself off from considering the topic entirely.

Except—his father seemed to be open to this today. He seemed to need it, if he was still sitting in the snow on his lawn at eight in the morning and had not run from this conversation. So Tom asked, in the most direct variation of the question that he could muster, “Did she give you anything to drink?”

“She served all of our meals, as I recall,” Senior answered. “And on the first day we met, she gave me a glass of water to drink when I rode by.”

Tom’s heart plummeted in his chest. He sat up quickly and put his arms around his father, burying his head in the older man’s chest. Riddle Sr. smelled like expensive cologne and hay—he must have stopped by the stable on his way here—and Tom’s mind supplied the label _Father_ to the combination.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m not like that. I—I promise. Never like that.”

“I know,” his father reassured him, bringing his arms around his son. “Not you. You’re my boy.” He silently stroked Tom’s hair, running his long fingers, callused from handling horses, through the black curls and waves that were so similar to his own. “I need you to be careful, for me. That can’t happen to you. I can’t prevent it, and that—that terrifies me.” Senior hugged him tightly for a minute before letting go and standing up, helping Tom out of the snow at the same time.

“Don’t talk to your grandparents about this,” he cautioned as they made their way through the deep snow back to the manor. “They still worry about me and my… experience.”

“Okay,” Tom nodded dumbly, his head spinning with this confirmation.

“I’m sorry to dampen your birthday,” his father said as they reached the door.

“Last year was—that was the important one, for me,” Tom explained as best he could. “And… you did well.” He pulled up his sleeve to show the watch that had become his constant accessory. It gleamed brightly in the winter sun.

“I was hoping to do better, this year,” Senior hesitantly admitted.

Later that evening, when Tom unwrapped two sets of custom Wizengamot robes (with a note from Thoros folded in, explaining that any mistakes were his own, as he acted as liaison for Tom’s father in Twilfitt and Tattings), he nearly cried.

* * *

The remainder of the school year passed quickly. Tom and Thoros led the Slytherin boys through a rigorous NEWT revision schedule, because Slytherins absolutely did not leave each other behind. His tenure as Head Boy was, if anything, anticlimactic—after six years of preparation for the role, he felt like he was sleepwalking through most of his responsibilities. Even the barbed doubt of Albus Dumbledore, who had never managed to like a snake in his life, held little sway over his mood. 

Everything was building toward Tom taking up his position on the Wizengamot starting in the summer. He secured leave during a Hogsmeade weekend in order to find a flat for himself in magical London; he would let a modest one-bed off of Diagon Alley starting in July. Tom’s owl post was filled with forms and paperwork for his official assumption of the seat. He made time to take the pretty Hufflepuff Head Girl, Marguerite Smith, out to Hogsmeade each weekend for nearly two months. Tom never felt close enough to her to do more than hold hands or put his arm around her, but she was pleasant, laughed easily, and never pushed him. It wasn’t the same as Hermione’s savagery, which he still craved, so he amicably broke it off with her as the spring wound down.

* * *

Tom shifted and rolled over on the narrow dorm bed, trying to find a more comfortable position for his final night at Hogwarts without disturbing Thoros’ arm lying on top of him. He settled with a sigh, facing his sleeping friend. They’d agreed that their last evening at the castle, before Tom would take up his Wizengamot seat officially and Thoros would be off to Ireland for his years-long apprenticeship, should be spent together.

“Salazar, I want you so bad,” Thoros mumbled sleepily into his pillow.

Tom blinked and froze. Thoros was an occasional sleep-talker when he was in that liminal state halfway between sleeping and waking, but the throaty tone of voice he was using now was unfamiliar. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

He was jarred out of his thoughts abruptly when Thor pulled himself closer to Tom and kissed him without hesitation. Tom’s eyes went wide but it happened too quickly for him to react otherwise, Thoros pulling back just enough to mumble into Tom’s cheek.

“Want to come all over you, want you,” he said, his lips brushing Tom’s face with each word. And then Thor was on him again, kissing him more insistently. Tom gave in immediately this time, kissing his friend back ferociously and burrowing further underneath the other boy in his passion. This was his first kiss, and it was so _fucking_ hot, he had no idea Thor even thought about this sort of thing with him—

But as soon as Tom tried to pull Thoros closer, the other boy rolled onto his back, and with a single, soft snore, was fully asleep once again.

Tom turned into his pillow and groaned.

When he awoke in the morning, Thor was already alert, propped up slightly against the pillows and looking out at the window in the private dorm, where the grey-green morning light filtered in through murky lake water. Tom peered up at his friend, who was disheveled from sleep, and made a decision.

He pulled Thoros down into a kiss. Their lips met sweetly, nothing like the furtive heat of last night, but Tom couldn’t bear to contemplate exposing himself any more than that. What if Thor had been dreaming of someone else? What if Tom was just a convenient warm body? He tried his best to push these thoughts aside as he kissed his friend, though he felt the heat rise to his cheeks all the same.

They broke apart after a minute, Tom shrinking lower down on the bed, and Thoros staring dazedly after him.

“Woah,” Thor breathed his surprise, “I—I never thought I would have you as my first kiss.”

“First?” Tom smirked now, feeling a little high on himself with the positive reception. “Try second. You were rather more forward than that when you pursued me last night.”

Thoros turned bright red and swallowed nervously. “Tom, I, er, I don’t recall—”

Tom’s smirk widened. “No, you might not. You were apparently quite soundly asleep, Thor. However, in between aggressively snogging me, you made time to tell me how much you wanted to ‘come on me,’ I believe you said.”

Before Thoros could react and try to deny it, Tom lunged up at his friend again, raking his hands through Thor’s hair as he kissed him solidly. It only took a minute before Thoros was kissing him back, his own hands roaming down the buttons of their pyjama tops and along the bare skin of Tom’s waist once it had been exposed. If there was any doubt in Tom’s mind about who Thoros had been dreaming of, it was now thoroughly extinguished. 

Thor broke their kiss to groan as he pulled Tom’s body closer to his own, rutting against his friend’s hip as Tom kissed a line down his neck. 

“I do want you,” Thoros panted, “so much, Merlin, you have no idea, so much,” he moaned as Tom licked along his jaw to his ear.

“I’ve never done this before,” Tom confided in a whisper when he felt his friend reach for the waistband of his trousers. He hadn’t contemplated it with a boy, let alone with his best friend, before last night. It wasn’t the case that Tom was unwilling, but he was… hesitant. What if he did something wrong? He couldn’t embarrass himself in front of Thor, and he couldn’t risk his friendship, either.

It was Thoros’ turn to grin devilishly. “I would love,” he punctuated this with a kiss, “to show you,” Thor kissed Tom again, flicking his tongue across Tom’s lip, “how to enjoy yourself. Do you trust me?” He paused his attentions for a moment so that Tom, breathless and flushed, could gather himself enough to respond.

“Implicitly,” Tom gasped out as soon as he could talk again. 

That was all of the encouragement that Thoros needed to flip Tom onto his back, lying flat on the bed. He kissed Tom deeply, leaning over him as he let his hands roam his friend’s chest. Thor touched him gently, whispers of fingertips over his trembling stomach and waist, and used the lightest pressure to tweak his nipples to attention. Tom moaned and writhed beneath him as Thoros’ tongue entered his mouth, feeling both very vulnerable to his friend’s ministrations and extremely aroused. His prick was caught at an angle, and he went to readjust himself in his pants when Thoros caught his hands and drew back.

“What’s this?” Thor asked teasingly. “Enjoying me, Tom?” Humor glinted in his friend’s hazel eyes.

Tom’s own blue eyes were glazed with lust. “Thoros,” he drew out his friend’s name, “I need, I need,” he was unable to say more, flushed with embarrassment and suddenly shy about how much his friend affected him. It was Thoros, for God’s sake, the boy he’d been best friends with since third year. Except—except he’d never noticed the way the light caught in Thor’s hair before, or the taut muscles of Thoros’ flat stomach. He’d seen Thor naked and yet never contemplated the prominent bulge in his trousers before this morning. It was all so much, and he wanted every part of it.

“Lift your hips,” Thoros instructed, digging his thumbs into Tom’s pyjama trousers and pants all at once. When Tom arched off the bed, Thor slid them down to his mid-thigh, and Tom’s cock broke free with a hearty smack of flesh hitting flesh. The obscene erection was bared between them, and his bollocks were propped up on the waistband of his trousers, exposing everything private about Tom to the eager eyes of his friend.

Thoros surveyed Tom for a long moment, his expression greedy. Tom squirmed from the lack of touch and the shame of being laid open, but if anything, his prick became harder under Thor’s scrutiny. He wanted so badly for his friend to do something. Did he like what he saw? Would he want to touch it? Tom felt himself begin to drip precome at the thought, and when the first warm drop hit his stomach, he felt his chest go red.

“You are,” Thoros’ breath hitched, “devastating.”

And then Thor was on him again, kissing Tom deeply and enthusiastically thrusting his tongue into Tom’s mouth as his hands pulled on sensitive nipples and his hips thrust his own hard prick, somehow now bared, against Tom’s naked hip. Tom moaned and arched up, trying to find friction for himself, but Thoros held him down and smiled into the kiss.

“I’m going to take care of you, beautiful,” he promised in a low voice. 

Thor’s hand came down to grasp the sensitive shaft of Tom’s cock and Tom gasped an ‘oh!’ of surprise as the quill calluses of his friend’s fingers rubbed against him. He almost unmanned himself at the contact; he’d never felt another person this way. It was indescribable. As Thoros tugged him, his hot, smooth palm grinding over the head of Tom’s prick with each stroke, Tom rose higher and arched up further, his muscles tense and strained as he chased his release. He couldn’t focus on kissing Thor any longer, his mouth was occupied with moaning his friend’s name over and over. Thor put his tongue to use on Tom’s nipples, licking and sucking them so gently that the other boy wanted to cry. 

Tom’s orgasm broke out of him with a shout of “Thor!” as he shot his load half into his friend’s hand and half onto his own chest. Heaving gulps of air, Tom came to in time to watch Thoros indecently licking some of Tom’s spunk off of his hand.

“You taste incredible,” Thor said as a faint blush covered his cheeks when he noticed he’d been caught.

“Ah,” Tom gasped, “do you want me to… ?” He still couldn’t say the words. 

“Nah,” Thoros kept Tom down with his clean hand, “I want to do it. You do look amazing, covered in come. Do you think you could handle more?” Thor’s hazel eyes traveled up and down Tom’s body, again, and he felt extremely conscious of his softened member and messy skin.

“I look terrible, and I’m not even…” Tom gestured to his impotence, mortified that he hadn’t been more conscious of Thoros’ need before he came.

“No.” Thoros kissed Tom briefly, then lowered his head to lick Tom’s cock. It stirred half-heartedly but he was wiped; he couldn’t muster up anything further. “You ruin me. Please, let me come on you,” he begged.

“Okay,” Tom agreed a little hastily. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could take being complimented for lying in his own seed.

However, as soon as Thor started wanking, Tom’s entire mood shifted. The rhythmic, wet slap of Thoros’ hand on his own prick, lubricated with a mix of Tom’s release and Thor’s spit, was grotesque and intensely arousing. Watching Thoros’ half-lidded eyes roving over his body as he jerked himself, even, especially, as his friend’s gaze fixed on the evidence of Tom’s spent passion, was enough to have Tom whimpering again. He wasn’t hard, but he was so aroused that he brought his own hand to his nipples and pulled, experimentally, which elicited a groan from himself and a sharp intake of breath from Thor. When Tom looked up again, Thoros’ pupils were blown wide and fixated on Tom’s chest.

“Touch your tits, oh, Merlin,” Thor pleaded as he wanked himself more vigorously. “Touch yourself for me.”

And Tom did, tweaking himself and moaning underneath his friend, dragging a hand along his overstimulated cock so that he shuddered, and then he begged, “Come on me, Thor. I want to feel you all over me.”

Thoros seized and shouted “Tom!” as he came, sending spurts of sticky, white come across Tom’s chest. Tom stared, wide-eyed, as his beautiful friend threw his head back and moaned before collapsing to his side.

After a beat, Thor murmured into Tom’s shoulder, “You look ferocious, striped with come. Absolutely devastating.” And then he kissed his friend tenderly as they held each other and drifted back to sleep for another hour longer, on the morning of their final trip on the Hogwarts Express.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Tom Riddle!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m giving this story an official rating of Explicit, as from here on out, most chapters will at least briefly describe sex. It felt a bit weird to have the E rating when Tom was still a kid, you know?

Tom spent just one week at Riddle Manor before moving into his new flat on Diagon. He felt almost a sense of melancholy to be leaving his family— _family_ —so soon, but he was an independent adult, now. He had to live in his own space.

That fact didn’t stop Mary Riddle from fussing over what antique furniture he should bring (his bedroom set would stay at the manor; he would take the desk from the library), which house linens he would need (new towels and sheets, heirloom quilts and lace curtains), and how he would keep in touch (owl post once per week, holidays at the manor). She looked a little teary-eyed and Tom had to explain, “Grandmother, you’ve sent me off to school twice already,” but his father shushed him and said this was different. It was. He would no longer automatically see his family. He would never again have Thoros pull him onto the train in September. 

This didn’t scare Tom the way that it made some of his classmates anxious. He wasn’t the type to lose sleep at night over whether he would be _good enough_ —Tom had always known he was good enough. Better, even, than anyone could possibly need to be. Whatever his duties when he sat on the Wizengamot, he would learn to excel at them. There was no other option.

However, he didn’t realize that he would miss so many things about being a schoolboy. He’d spent his years at Hogwarts racing to the other end, and now that they were over, he wished he might have paid more attention along the way. Like with Thoros—but there was no future for that, right now, with his friend happily occupied with his academic pursuits and Tom dedicated to a career in politics. Anyway, Hermione had promised to find him, and Tom wouldn’t forget her promise.

Her calling card was sent to his new flat by owl in mid-July. She wanted to meet that Saturday, at a restaurant in the posh section of Diagon. He wore a nice Muggle linen shirt and trousers, something his father had gifted him, with gauzy robes over top. With his hair combed and set in waves, he thought he might look like a man in his 20s.

Hermione was elegant in a cotton batiste shirt-waist and broadcloth trousers. Her appearance momentarily stunned Tom, who couldn’t recall seeing her in anything other than a skirt in all their years of acquaintance. 

“Hermione,” he greeted her somewhat breathlessly. “You look wonderful.” He took up her hand and kissed the knuckles, a gesture with which he was still unfamiliar, but he did it to impress the type of old-money purebloods that would be dining here tonight. Hermione deserved to be treated like a precious companion. His own, newly-made signet ring, with the Gaunt family crest, winked in the chintzy light of the restaurant chandeliers as he held up her hand. She was a Lord’s guest, plain for all to see.

“It’s good to see you again, little rabbit,” she laughed in response. “How do you feel about your NEWT exams?” Hermione asked once they had been seated.

“Oh,” he waved his hand dismissively. “No issue. I expect Os, of course; the question is merely which new records I have set.”

“Arrogance doesn’t flatter you, Tom,” she shot back with a dark look.

He nearly laughed. “Are you envious, Hermione?” She continued to stare him down. “You are! Love, the NEWT scores mean nothing. It’s just about test-taking strategies and managing your time.”

“Don’t call me ‘love,’” she ground out, clearly still irritated. 

He was a little surprised, to be honest. Hermione had never been so… petty, with him. “I apologize,” he backed down. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“No,” she agreed, “you should not have.” They ordered quickly when the server came around, looking for a distraction from his misstep. While they waited to be served, she reached across the table and took up his hand, playing idly with his fingers. 

“You’ve grown so much, Tom,” she wondered to herself. “Are you excited about your new role?”

“I am,” he accepted her transition gracefully, so long as she would keep holding his hand. “I moved into my office last week. The Wizengamot members each have a private office in the Ministry, did you know?” She nodded along as he spoke. “Mine belonged to my… I’m not sure, great-great-great grandfather? Perhaps another degree of remove? There’s nothing truly valuable in it, but there’s plenty of family history. He left a magical tapestry tracing our ancestry back to Slytherin on the wall—I’m looking into having someone restore it, it’s positively crusty after a century of neglect—and so many old documents and journals with Gaunt, Peverell, and Slytherin lore. Did you know that I’m related to the people who established the American wizarding school, Ilvermorny?” He couldn’t keep the glee out of his voice, and if he’d been able to see himself, he was sure he would have been disgusted. It was all just so much more than he ever expected to get.

“That surely is thrilling,” she agreed mildly as she separated their hands to accept their plates. “Tell me, flighty bunny,” she picked up her utensils and cut delicately into her quail, “What are the other members like? Have you started cultivating your peers?”

Tom frowned slightly; he wanted to share more about his family heritage. He made a mental note to owl Thor the details next week. “Most of the members don’t spend time in their Ministry offices. Well,” he corrected himself, “except the Ministry seats. Those people don’t have an office on the same floor as where the Wizengamot meets, though.”

“So what have you been doing with your time?” Hermione interrogated him. He was reminded of her dedication to his revision schedule during his OWL year. 

“I’ve been reviewing records from the past year to give myself context before our next session. The summer recess ends in September, and we could have an emergency session at any time, so I thought it useful to know the current voting alliances and major issues. There’s likely to be a vote on the budget for the Department of International Magical Cooperation in the autumn session, and it has been criminally underfunded, especially considering that the war in both the Muggle and magical worlds is clearly ending and we should be putting more money toward cementing our international influence during a transition period like this—” Tom rambled on energetically, barely paying mind to the food in front of him as he inconsequentially tore through the meal between thoughts. There was _so much_ work to be done.

Hermione watched him with a reserved interest. Her eyes darted around the dining room, pausing to identify a guest occasionally, and Tom wondered who might see them together tonight. He hoped everyone would take note.

“I do have an open position for an assistant in my office,” he finally broached. “I wouldn’t want to insult you by asking you to be a secretary, but if we rewrote the job description and petitioned for a different pay scale, would you, er, consider coming on as my partner?” He looked at her hopefully. Hermione’s vision was the impetus for this arrangement, after all. She should get a comfortable and secure job to reflect that.

“No, bunny, no,” she rejected with a firm shake of her head. Her hair bobbed perilously in its pins. “I can’t be allied with anyone so obviously.”

“Oh. Okay.” He hadn’t expected Hermione to accept a position that was beneath him, but he also hadn’t expected her to want… public distance, he supposed. “So what does this make tonight’s dinner?”

“A rarity,” she admitted. “You’ve just graduated. I can afford that.”

“What, er, do you plan to do with your time? What are you doing now?” he asked. He needed some sort of context.

“I work in Ministry records. We’re not officially part of any of the main departments,” she said proudly, sipping her drink, “but part of the administrative branch under the Minister.”

“What’s the advantage of that?” Tom adopted her aloof attitude, lounging back in his own seat. 

She smirked at him. “Arithmancers are expected to help with the numbers—what was the budget for that project, what expenses do we predict for this or that initiative, what are the likely outcomes of this policy change, and so on. Records work is boring, but we have access to information from every part of the Ministry. Everyone files their paperwork through central recordkeeping.”

“Ah.” That made sense. “So you’ll… pick your legislative priorities based on that?”

“Sure, and blackmail,” she responded with a shrug. “Are you ready to get out of here?”

Tom paid, of course. He would never let a chance to care for Hermione pass him by.

He walked her back to his flat, his hands sweating in his pockets. She looked appraisingly around the place when they got in, while Tom put on water for tea. He could hear her opening all the doors and peeking through his bathroom cupboards.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked her wryly as she stirred cream into her cup some time later.

“I suppose I thought you might get something more with your father’s stipend,” she replied delicately.

“This was a sound financial investment,” he justified. “My lease is lower than I could afford, but it’s an historic building and centrally-located without being directly on the bustle of Diagon,” Tom explained with all the enthusiasm of a middle-class renter. “I don’t need any more space than this, and the sitting room makes a handsome receiving parlor, I think.” He looked around his flat, filled with Riddle family accessories. It was a welcoming space, and better than he could have managed without assistance. He would proudly host his peers here, even if it wasn’t an ancestral mansion.

“If you have the resources, though, why not go… bigger? You could apparate to work from anywhere in the UK,” Hermione pushed.

“I like to walk,” he defended himself. He’d learned the value of staying active last summer, after his late-30s father repeatedly outlasted him on a horse. Tom even stretched in the mornings.

“Okay, but at least consider some magical touches other than your old school texts,” she urged. “For appearances’ sake. You know I don’t mind such Mugglish surroundings,” she placated him, and he allowed his shoulders to lose some of their tension, “but you’re a Lord, Tom. Your home should have the trappings of your station.”

He grimaced as he sipped his tea. Pretension at nobility might be necessary, but it was inherently repulsive to his urchin sensibilities. He could only tolerate the gifts from his family due to the spirit of reuse.

“I’ll consider it,” he promised half-heartedly as he cleaned up the tea set. Nothing in this flat was new except the linens, and he’d be damned if he started changing that now, but he might find something in his Wizengamot office to bring home.

“Wonderful!” Hermione grinned back at him as they moved to his sofa. She took his hand into her own as they sat and pulled him down onto her shoulder, where he leaned against her and nuzzled her neck. 

“Hermione,” Tom whispered her name, letting his warm breath tickle her throat. “A year ago, when I asked… I still want you, you know.” His experiences in seventh year made him bold enough to approach her again, even after her prior rejection. She’d said she would consider him.

“Oh?” Her eyes were teasing and her tone was light. “What does a handsome man like you, little rabbit, want with a woman like me?”

He wrapped an arm around her to pull her closer, and brushed his lips across her cheek as he spoke, each word caressing the soft skin above her jaw. “I think you know, Hermione,” he rumbled in a deep voice. “I’ve wanted you for—”

She flipped out of his hold and onto his lap before he could finish speaking, using her arms to pin his shoulders back as she straddled him. Blood rushed to his groin and face, making him light-headed as he became visibly affected by her nearness. 

“Tom, Tom,” she baitlingly scolded the man trapped willingly beneath her. “You think I would just let you try and seduce me?” She bent to nip his earlobe, pulling it roughly between her teeth before releasing. “That I would swoon after your _deep voice_ ,” she lowered her own in mockery of his affect, “and fall into your bed like every other girl?”

“That’s not—” he tried to object to her characterization, but she silenced him by biting at his neck and he hissed in surprise.

“I didn’t say that you could talk, bunny,” she reprimanded him again. “In fact,” with a swish of her wand, he could feel that he was silenced. At least she hadn’t felt the need for the indignity of a gag. “Will you be a good boy for me, then?”

He should not have, but he nodded eagerly, his eyes wide.

“Good bunny,” she purred atop him, sinking more heavily into his lap and removing the spell that kept him quiet. “You’re already so worked up for me, aren’t you?” He moaned out a yes as she twitched her hips against him, feeling delightfully warm even through the layers of their clothes.

She stepped back quickly, standing and straightening herself. Tom felt the rush of cold air; he whined unhappily.

“Hmmm,” she hummed as she thought, arms crossed suggestively under her bust. When had she undone so many buttons? Her tits were plainly taunting him. When she spoke, she was smiling deviously. “You should go undress in your bedroom, bun. I’ll give you a few minutes.”

He shot up like the hopeful virgin that he was. Tom tried to lean in for a kiss as he left, but Hermione swerved out of reach of his approach and laughed. “No, no, go wait for me!” she exclaimed and slapped his arse.

Smarting from the blow, he nearly ran off to his bedroom, undoing buttons as he went. He threw his clothes carelessly on the ground; those would be tomorrow morning’s problem. Tom checked himself in his mirror briefly—his hair was still in place and his face was clear. 

He had small, red teeth marks along his ear and neck.

He didn’t realize she had bitten that hard.

Tom let the memory of her mouth on his skin wash over him as he fell back against his mattress. Would she kiss him as sweetly as Thor? What would she say when she saw him splayed out? Thoros had called him _devastating_ and branded his soul with the compliment. He nervously rearranged the pillows behind him and stroked himself to stay ready for her.

When Hermione entered the room, her hair was unpinned and wild behind her. She looked like a saint in a church window as the hall light filtered through the halo of her curls.

She was still dressed.

“What’s that surprise on your face?” she asked lightly. “Hoping for something more so soon?”

He nodded, remembering her earlier admonition to stay silent.

“I thought I might watch you for a while first, little rabbit. Touch yourself.” Her tone brokered no argument, not that he would want to resist. Her eyes were fixed on his cock, and under her greedy stare, all Tom wanted to do was impress her.

He pulled himself slowly, feeling the blush rise on his chest as she observed. His palm stuttered over his slick tip as he stroked, and he felt much too close to use anything but the lightest pressure. 

Hermione noticed immediately. “So close already,” she said quietly, sitting next to him on the bed. “Hold off for me.” He nodded again, slowing his pace and waiting for her next move.

She looked on dispassionately and he wilted, hand stilling completely and serving more to cover himself than to arouse.

“Hermione…” he broke his silence, needing something more from her. Her eyes met his and he pleaded; this had to be mutual. She… was attracted to him, wasn’t she?

“I just,” she hesitated in her response, “I like it a little… differently than you might expect.” Her gaze was even and remote. “Do you trust me, Tom?”

“Implicitly,” he promised.

Hermione took a breath and stood. “Okay. We’ll do this my way.” In a flash, she had her wand in hand. With a quick flick, his hands were bound behind him, wedged between his back and the pillows. He yelped in surprise. “Too tight?” she asked, and he shook his head. With another quickly-murmured spell, she was undressed before him.

God, his imagination could never have done her body justice. She was a rosy blush over pale skin, soft curves in soft skin, and the prettiest, most delicate little thing he had ever seen. No woman could compare. His flagging interest returned in full force, and he yanked his arm, momentarily forgetting that he couldn’t touch himself. Tom groaned, low in the back of his throat, at the reminder of his restraint.

This made Hermione smirk and set her eyes alight. “Yes, just like that, bunny,” she purred as she stalked toward him. “You want to touch yourself again, don’t you?” He moaned out something between a “yes” and a “please,” eager for her attention, at last. 

She ran her fingers along the inside of his thigh as she settled on her knees between them. “You can’t,” she said wickedly as her fingers drifted higher, rubbing harder. He whimpered and jerked his hips, hoping she might take the hint when his cock slapped fleshily against his stomach. “Mmm, eager bunny,” she taunted, “not yet. I have plans for you. Spread wider.”

Tom blushed red, embarrassed to expose himself so obscenely to Hermione. She was grace and beauty; the coarse, curling hair of his groin was best hidden away. Sensing his shame, she dug her thumbs into the crease of his thighs and made to pry him apart. “I very much want to see you,” Hermione promised.

He acquiesced, then, feeling defenseless against her want. He felt her fingers trace along the seam of his bollocks, down his perineum, and stop lightly at the tight, anxious ring of muscles beneath. He drew in a sharp breath, squirming at the contact.

“You like that?” Hermione’s voice was breathy and she seemed hopeful at the prospect. He wanted to say yes, but he wasn’t sure—she caught his hesitance and hummed, placing her lips on his thigh so that the sound traveled along the jumping muscle in his leg. “Let’s find out,” she murmured into that sensitive skin. 

He watched her spell her fingers slick and then push one dainty digit past the ring of muscle, into his arse. He sucked in air and tensed.

“Shh, relax,” she calmed him as her hair tickled his shin. “You’ll like it if you can relax.”

He tried to breathe through the experience, and soon enough, she was moving within him. Her fingers sped and she was soon thrusting in another, urging him to move along with her and ride her hand. It was a strange sensation, but Tom did his best to cant his hips and thrust back until the rhythm became pleasant and her eyes grew hazy as she watched her hand fucking him. That was the thought that finally helped him accept it—Hermione was _fucking_ him. It was indecent. He moaned and began to use her hand enthusiastically, enjoying the way the fingers of her other hand dug into his hip as he did so.

“That’s it, little rabbit,” she encouraged with a throaty groan, “fuck, you’re so _needy_. You want this so badly, don’t you?”

“Yes, need you so bad,” he panted back.

“Can you come on my fingers? Think you can manage that, bunny?”

“I—I don’t—”

“Shh, it’s okay,” she massaged his hip, “not today, we have plenty of time for you to learn that. You’ll be so good for me, won’t you? You’ll learn how to come for me when I ask? You’ll learn how to come without me touching your cock?”

“ _Unhh_ , I’ll—anything, Hermione,” Tom gasped as she snuck in a third finger without preamble, “whatever you need,” he vowed.

“Oh, no, you’re the one who needs me, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” He moaned and wished for more. “I need you, please, I need you, please let me come inside you.” 

“Come inside me?” Hermione laughed delightedly. “You’ll have to work harder than this.”

“What do you want?” Tom begged. He would do anything to please her, if she would touch him. Her fingers inside him were almost arousing on their own, now—they edged so close, maybe if she would twist them or move them—but he was desperate for proper stimulation under her heated gaze.

“Truly?”

“Yes!”

“I want to masturbate to you bound like this, Tom,” she purred at him. “I want you to watch me and drip with anticipation, not knowing how I’ll help you finish.” He was already salivating at her words, his mouth uncomfortably wet with the desire to suck and lick her cunt. “I want to feel how frustrated you are when you can’t touch me, and I want you to come so fast and so hard that you pass out.”

All he could do was lie back and breathe as she talked, her fingers fucking him harder with each word until he was whimpering underneath her.

She stopped suddenly and withdrew. He wasn’t precisely sad at the loss, but his arse clenched uncomfortably around empty air, and Tom felt even more exposed than he had initially. The thought would have weighed on him if she hadn’t immediately brought her other hand to her clit and started working herself.

The wet, slick sounds of her fingers on her cunt were incredible. She was absolutely dripping from what she had been doing to him, and that was… indescribably hot. Hermione must have been burning for him this entire time. Flushed with that realization, he squirmed and thrust down against the mattress, hoping to tempt her into paying his prick some attention.

She moaned with a feral glee as she watched, her eyes wide and focused on his cock. “Not yet, bunny.”

Sprawling backward, she opened her legs to him so that he could more easily see how her fingers disappeared inside of her. She was rubbing her clit with her thumb and fucking herself with two fingers, each pass sounding wet and sloppy. She brought her other hand, the one slick and dirty from fucking Tom, up to her breasts where she kneaded herself and plucked her nipples.

He groaned and pleaded with her for mercy. “Please, Hermione, I need you to touch me. _Oh_ , I need—I’ll—I’ll be a good boy, a good bunny for you,” his chest turned bright red in humiliation as he debased himself. “Anything, anything,” Tom moaned impotently as he struggled against the magic binding him.

Hermione came with a vicious shriek as he begged, slumping forward until her forehead rested on his hip. He wiggled beneath her, managing only to catch his prick in her sweaty curls.

After a minute’s rest, she propped her chin upon that hip and pulled her hair to the side, looking up at him from exhausted eyes. “Time for you, eager bunny. Desperate, needy little rabbit.” She smirked as she sunk her mouth down his cock and he jerked uncontrollably, gasping and groaning at the wet warmth of Hermione. He thrust overzealously, too worked up to keep himself cool. Hermione pushed his hips back down and removed her mouth to tsk at him disapprovingly, but he was blind from lust and only rutted more furiously against the air.

She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “bad bunny” before descending on him again with an intentional scrape of teeth. Tom hissed his displeasure but couldn’t withdraw, not when she had so much of him in her mouth, not when he was so ready to come.

“Hermione!” he cried out, and finally, finally, she gave him an earnest suck.

Tom came with a whimper, shooting his load messily down her throat in a painful thrust as he strained against the awkward angle of his shoulders. He collapsed into himself when he finished, though she held him in her mouth, sucking him dry, long after that. He held back a wince as she let him go.

Hermione laid her head along his thigh. “That was…” she closed her eyes and graced him with a soft, genuine smile, “so good, sweet bunny. So good. Congratulations, Tom; I hope you enjoyed your graduation gift.”

He smiled back. “Could you—?” he shrugged his shoulders to indicate his inconvenient binds. 

She groped for her wand lazily, wiping her messy fingers along his quilt as she searched for it. “Ah,” Hermione fumbled the spell on her first try. “There you go!”

He pulled his arms around, rolling his shoulders and attempting to loosen the stiffness.

“Let me,” she offered, sitting up at last. Hermione took his left arm first and massaged his hands and wrists, digging her fingers into the joints to loosen any discomfort that may have set in before moving up his arm. Once she finished with his left side, she moved on to the right and repeated the process. Tom sighed and laid back when she dropped his right arm.

“May I rub your back, little rabbit?” And, oh, how could he deny her that? She tucked them under his blankets and ran her hands down his spine, across his shoulders, and into his sides, and he felt the warmth of her years of caring affection deep in his chest. She whispered to him softly, long after she had finished, holding him against her chest and stroking his hair as he dozed on her and, eventually, drifted into a safe and peaceful sleep.

Hermione had dressed and showered by the time Tom woke the next morning. He hesitated and decided not to rub his eyes, remembering what a mess they had made of the bedclothes. He sent a silent apology to his grandmother for any damage to the old family quilt.

“Hey, bun?” she asked from the doorway to his bedroom, where she stood, gently scrunching her wet curls with a towel. “I didn’t think to ask, but—were you a virgin before last night?”

He grimaced as he answered. “Well—”

“Oh!” she interrupted him. “You should have told me! I would have liked to know I was your first before we did it.” Hermione winked as she turned around and headed down his hall. Tom hastened to put on his dressing gown and wash his hands.

“Don’t tell me you’re no longer brushing and flossing, Tom,” she scolded him as she rummaged through her purse. Her arm was inserted up to her elbow; of course Hermione would put extension charms on her bags. 

“No, I just—you seemed like you were leaving,” he excused his negligence and morning breath.

“I am,” she confirmed, “but I suppose I owe you something before I go.” 

He smiled and walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and dropping his face to her damp hair.

“I know what my first proposal for the Wizengamot will be,” she announced beneath him as she drew a tube of lipstick out of her bag and applied it. “However, I’m months off from being ready to share it with you. I’ll want your feedback before I go live with it, and in particular, I’ll want you to have a good sense of the other members so we know who might vote in favor, who could be talked around, and who will oppose. Your assignment for the next… six months, at least, is to learn about all of your colleagues.”

She spun out of his arms as she finished talking but kept a soft hand within his. “Can you manage that, little rabbit?”

“Of course,” Tom promised. He would have done so without her urging. “Will I see you again soon?”

“Mmmm—I’ll owl, okay?”


	11. Chapter 11

She did not owl.

Tom saw Hermione again in early September, at the Ministry ceremony awarding Albus Dumbledore his Order of Merlin, First Class, for defeating Grindelwald.

That occasion would have been terrible enough on its own for Tom. He was obligated to attend, as a member of the Wizengamot, but he was not obligated to enjoy the event. Tom was debating whether ostentatiously sulking or charming the pants off of everyone in the room would upset the old goat more when it happened: Hermione Granger arrived on the arm of an undersecretary in the Minister’s office. 

The man was an average-looking middle-aged wizard, and entirely unremarkable except that he would be considered Hermione’s superior—she was the date of her boss’s boss. Hermione looked stunning, wearing elegant traditional robes in a pale pink, and she was clearly steering her date so that he would have to introduce her to every person of importance in the room.

Tom’s mood took a turn for the sour. It had been over a month without hearing from her, and he was used to gaps in their communication—Salazar, the prior gap had lasted a year—but he had asked to see her again after they’d had sex! Even Hermione wasn’t willfully obtuse enough to not recognize that he wanted to court her.

He was so put out over the shock of seeing her with another man that he accidentally congratulated Dumbledore, to that nuisance’s surprise, and retreated to an alcove so he might wait out the cocktail hour and leave. When a handsome clerk from the DMLE, a Montague, boldly asked Tom if he wanted to “get out of here,” Tom took him up on the offer.

Poor Percival turned white as a sheet when, later that night, Tom asked him to bind Tom’s hands as he fucked him.

Tom got him to agree to try within the next week.

Percival was such fine company that autumn that Tom almost forgot about Hermione’s missing owl. He couldn’t escape the reminders of her presence, though. Her name made the paper in conjunction with that bloody undersecretary at two more ministry events until he was finally spotted with another young witch. She sent Tom a scolding note through a Ministry page when she caught him knitting with Lady Malfoy between arguments at a Wizengamot trial in November, so he made sure his next pair of socks were a lurid magenta wool that was impossible to miss. It all felt like petty nonsense, but he couldn’t pull himself away from the jealousy until the winter holidays finally, blessedly offered him a chance to step away from the Ministry.

He spent two weeks with his family, enjoying the seclusion of Little Hangleton, where magic was just a vague notion. Thoros dropped by for tea on his way to see his own family for the hols, and it was such a relief to get to talk with his friend that Tom couldn’t even feel awkward about the last time they had seen each other. 

Too soon, it was January, and Hermione owled him.

They started small. Tea on the weekends, perhaps breakfast or lunch in the Muggle world. She would touch his hand and laugh as he told stories about his geriatric colleagues. “Lord Slughorn thought the American Muggles were still having a civil war,” he’d say, or, “Lady Flint told me that back in the mid-1800s, when she was new on the Wizengamot, one of the members hit another with his cane over import fees for honeydew melons.” They would talk about the absurdity of these purebloods, so lost in their own world, and wonder if it was possible they would ever live long enough to be so out-of-touch. “No,” Hermione would insist, “we’re too grounded in our Muggle roots,” and she would make a broad gesture at the dingy place where they were eating their ration-impacted fry-ups. Tom would bite back a comment about whose Muggle roots the crappy old café filled with factory workers really reflected, and suggest, instead, “It would happen to anyone if they got as old as Dippet,” and they would marvel that the man was still employed. 

Tom would cajole her in an attempt to learn her plans, but Hermione stayed quiet on that front. “Not out in public,” she would deflect, and he would raise an eyebrow as he looked pointedly at their Muggle surroundings. She never caved. She would put her hand on his arm and give it a squeeze, though, and promise him “soon.” “What’s keeping you?” he would ask, and she would just shake her head and give him that sweet, clever little smile that said she was planning something. They would return to compiling notes on the Wizengamot members and Ministry department heads and he would let the topic drop for the day.

Then Hermione started coming over.

Hermione rarely came around to his flat, and when she did, it was for a fuck. They had a routine: she would knock after five on a weekday, and he would ask whether she had dinner plans. If she said yes, she would take him fast and hard in the living room, leaving him panting and breathless and wanting more, even as he was spent and limp, and she would leave again within the hour looking unruffled.

If she said no, well, they would make a night of it. He would offer her dinner, and she would make a pretense out of accepting: “Oh, I don’t mean to put you out,” she would say. “It’s no trouble at all. I could use the company,” he would respond. “If you insist. I’ll help you prepare,” she might offer, or: “I’ll pay for half,” and he would wave her off, as if he would ever have let her interfere with an opportunity for him to demonstrate his devotion.

However, dinner would come much later, as part of her leaving routine. They would fuck first. 

Tom wished he could call it something other than fucking. He wanted, deep in his soul, to think they were making love. He would settle for having sex. But Hermione, she only fucked.

Sometimes, she would order him into a position, binding his hands and teasing his cock until he begged for her to please, _please_ let him come, and when she finally got him off, with her mouth or hands, it would be just a little too harsh and the discomfort would be physically satisfying and emotionally draining, because he never, never got to touch her when they did this. She would frig herself, lithe fingers pounding her own cunt and rubbing furiously on her delicious clit, only after he had gotten off but while he was still bound, and it was the sweetest form of torture, a thing of beauty that he could not fully enjoy.

More often, as the year rolled into summer, he was allowed to take part. She might let him touch her, put his eager lips on her breasts and suck her pink nipples as she pressed his face to her chest. He might get to put his own fingers in her cunt and trace her wetness through her folds and over her clit. On the best days, he could lower his head between her thighs, and she would look wary but not interfere, and he would taste her for as long as she would have him. Tom knew, intellectually, that he was decent at this act. He’d had other female partners in the past year, short-term things, and they had certainly indicated as much. Hermione, though, was difficult to please. She never relaxed, she held herself tense, and he worked hard to bring her to orgasm. 

When it happened, though, it was transcendent. She would cry out, fierce and strong and loud, and hold him to her with thighs around his head and hands in his hair and more often than not, he would finish from the intensity of her grip, rutting himself against the sheets.

He had only had his cock inside that precious cunt twice, and he had been tied up for both. He did not bother to hope for it. Both instances had been sacred and he would accept any future recurrences without questioning his luck.

Tonight had been a wonderful example of the second form of interaction; Hermione had smiled fondly when he moved to lie between her legs. She had pulled his hair gently and stroked his temple and she moaned breathily as he licked her, using his tongue to probe her entrance and circle her clit. He’d encouraged her to lift her legs around him, and he came as she did, her heels digging into his back and his full torso and head pressed down, down beneath her, into her and surrounded by her scent and her skin and her sounds. He hadn’t stood a chance at lasting even a second longer than her, and his cock throbbed with the long, slow spurts of his release as he soaked his own stomach and his bedsheets with his seed.

Sated, he crawled up to lie next to her. This was the night he was going to get information from Hermione. She had been almost gentle during sex, and Tom hopefully asked her, “So what, exactly, are the details of your mysterious reform plan?” Tom had discovered that though Hermione normally got up and dressed immediately after sex, he could distract her with conversation if he was fast enough. He didn’t want her to leave the bed yet and he knew she was edging closer to bringing him into her plans. She was staying for dinner, anyway, she just pretended like this arrangement was impersonal, was just meaningless fucking—it could never be meaningless between them. Tom ached for her touch.

He rolled so that he was on his side, facing her, and navigated her arm beneath his neck, nudging her hand suggestively onto his back. If he was lucky, she would run her nails down his spine and across his shoulders. Even if he wasn’t lucky, he would still get to feel her holding him, surrounding him, albeit limply. He buried his face in her neck as she began to answer.

“It’s brilliantly radical. I want the Wizengamot members to faint from shock.” Tom let her voice wash over him and shivered, which she mistook for a passing chill and pulled the duvet over their bodies. He needed her to never stop caring for him, just like that. Hermione, in his bed every night, tucking him into bed and letting him warm himself with her heat—it was a vision. He would work toward making it his reality as surely as she would strive for her program of reforms. 

“How will you make them faint?” He prodded, encouraging her to lose herself in thought, a state that often prompted her fidgeting, which manifested as light caresses on his person. Would she cradle his hip today? Run a finger along his ribs? Brush her hand through his hair? Or, his favorite: place a hand on the sparse hair of his chest, over his heart, letting her fingers trace circles on his breast.

“I will propose forming a commission for educational improvements, and with you and myself on the panel, we will present our own suggestions—organically, of course.” He nodded along. “The very first thing I will suggest is to refer to magical children as either Muggle- or wizard-raised, for the purpose of understanding their educational needs. I don’t imagine I could overturn blood prejudices so simply, and true language change is years away, but from an educational perspective, parentage does not matter nearly as much as childhood exposure to magic.” True to form, the hand behind his back had started scratching up and down, tracing his spine from the base of his head down as far along his back as she could reach. It felt heavenly, and Tom nuzzled closer to her like a cat seeking warmth.

He couldn’t help his need to comment, though, rumbling into her collarbone: “Wizard-raised? You would promote such a patriarchal term?”

Hermione swatted his arm and he relished the sting of contact. “There’s no great neutral term that doesn’t sound awkward. I do know how to choose my battles.” He would _not_ laugh. “Anyway, if you’re finished being a prat, and I can continue? The families of Muggle-raised child children should be contacted earlier in their child’s life, as I know you agree. Magical primary school, before Hogwarts, would give both Muggle- and Wizard-raised children a chance to build necessary academic skills and allow them to commingle, reducing the alienation of the Muggle-raised children when they start Hogwarts. I trust five-year-old children to have short enough memories to forget about any initial reservations within a few months.”

“A child could be marked as an outsider even at that young age,” he mumbled bitterly, “and that reputation would follow them until they graduate, rather than the child having an opportunity to reinvent themself at age eleven.” His own childhood was too much proof of that, and he was still too young to not feel the discomfort in his gut.

Her placating hand ran down his sternum to his stomach, stopping to twirl the thatch of hair above his groin, and though he was completely exhausted, he felt his muscles clench and tighten at the touch. “You’re right, of course, little rabbit. Regional primary schools, then. That would keep class sizes small, which is beneficial for young children anyway, and ensure that there are many new people to meet when a student starts Hogwarts.”

“How many of these schools do you plan to offer? Muggles will bear the travel burden more than magical families.” He thought for a moment, eyes covertly darting down to where her hand still lay, just above his cock. She had never touched him there outside of their sexual encounters, and he wondered what it would feel like to have her soft hand on his member, cupping and comforting. But how to ask for that in a way that she would understand?

“The travel could be an issue, yes.” Hermione thought for a few minutes, clearly turning over the problem in her head. Tom watched her brow crinkle; now 25, she had the faintest fine lines that marked the creases between her eyes. He worried for a moment that such a negative expression would be the first to permanently set into her face. “I had a cousin whose nursery school teacher walked through the neighborhood every morning and retrieved children from their homes; a wizard or witch could retrieve the Muggle-raised children using apparition or portkeys and bring them to school each morning. Hell, it might be a relief for some magical families to have their children escorted to school.”

He nodded, his nose rubbing the column of her neck. “More witches might start working outside the home if they are not responsible for childcare from ages 0 to 11.” Tom felt, rather than saw, her surprise as she withdrew her hand from the hair below his navel. He caught the hand with one of his own, pulling her back, slightly lower. Her fingers just brushed the base of his prick when he let go. “The Muggle war years are barely over, remember calls for women to work? I paid attention. I had no choice, if you recall,” he said with a hard voice, wincing apologetically at the way his feelings unintentionally resurfaced. “And don’t think I hadn’t noticed that all of those working witches in Ministry or Hogwarts careers were childless.”

“You are a clever bunny,” Hermione said gently as she ran her blessed hand lower still, skirting the join of his thigh and torso and running her fingers behind his sack. He shifted minutely to feel the warmth of her palm along himself and melted into her, his entire body soft and limp in her hold. “Yes, I think you make a good point. So: primary school for mixing the two cultures. Classes would cover essential skills such as writing, art, and mathematics, perhaps some physical education and history. Ideally, I would include Muggle science, but that’s decades off from being realistic.”

Tom scoffed, and the momentary tensing of his muscles needed to produce the sound was jarring to his relaxed form. Thankfully, she kept her arms around him. “None of this is realistic. Even starting with an educational commission, this is a decades-long plan that you’re proposing.”

“I accept none of your doubt. You are with me or you aren’t. Tom?” He just nodded, unwilling to risk the chance that she might withdraw from him. “Good. So children are educated throughout primary school in a range of non-magical skills, though the subject matter will remain, primarily, magical culture. Hogwarts will need to continue these classes. Hire educators for all of the same, and make at least writing a mandatory course for all students through OWLs. We have an embarrassment of poor writers in our society. And if a child without Sight can spend five years in divination classes, surely a wizard can justify some art education. Merlin, there are enough empty classrooms in that damned castle. Fewer places for idiotic purebloods to risk their betrothal contracts is only a positive.”

“Hiring for those teaching roles might be difficult,” Tom cautioned his ranting spitfire. “We don’t have masteries in those subjects.” There would barely be any adult wizards or witches qualified to teach the courses. Most magical people didn’t have a Muggle father with a particular investment in their child having a well-rounded education.

He could practically hear her rolling her eyes in response. “So hire someone who got a Muggle degree,” she argued, heedless of the rarity of that quality in their world. “Oxford is at least as good as sweating over a cauldron in the back room of Slug & Jiggers for three years, and I know five separate people with potions qualifications from just that experience.”

“Who would even have that sort of degree?” Tom questioned, allowing his fingers to creep toward her cheek.

“Squibs. Squibs have had to make it in the Muggle world. Hire them and bring them back; they’re Wizard-raised.” She turned slightly into his encroaching hand and his breath caught as she almost rubbed up against him. Hermione never let him comfort her.

Still, squibs were an outrageous suggestion, and he had to understand what she was thinking. He murmured a request for elaboration.

“Isn’t it an excellent idea, though?” Hermione giggled madly, drunk on her own imagination. “When families kick out their squib children, they’re cutting loose eleven years of investment into teaching someone wizarding culture. For a society so hung up on assimilation as the one true path to belonging, it’s an unbelievable oversight.” He could certainly agree with that. “Squibs live perfectly fine in our world if they’re allowed to do so; Hogwarts has a long history of hiring squibs into custodial roles. Magical proficiency has always been a spectrum, and some squibs have proficiency in disciplines like arithmancy or potions.”

Tom really did not need a reminder that squibs could brew potions, and he winced at her assertion. Hermione shot him a confused look.

“My… mother,” he said hesitantly, and then corrected himself, choosing a less general description. “My wizarding family had fallen to near-squibs.” Tom couldn’t talk about the wrong that had been done to his father, not to Hermione; he wouldn’t violate his father’s trust like that.

She hummed an apology into the crown of his head, resuming the scrape of her nails along his back and tightening her hold on his groin ever-so-slightly, reminding him of the intimacy of their embrace. He chanced a light brush of his lips against her neck, and she must truly have been sorry for her upsetting reminder of his mother, because she allowed it.

“Yes, so,” she continued belatedly, “people unable to fully use magic who were born to magical families should be encouraged to stay in our world because they are a part of the diversity of it.” Hermione spoke with such conviction; he wondered when she had started her research for this project. “They may not be able to cast spells with a wand, but they are not deficient for lacking that ability. And that brings me to my final proposal, which will truly upset the Wizengamot: educate squib children at Hogwarts.”

That really would knock the wizarding elite off their feet. Tom’s own breathing stopped for a second. “How?”

“I assume you are referring to the difficulty of integrating squibs, who cannot perform wand-based magic, into a curriculum dominated by wand-based magic? Simple enough, though it will involve careful planning,” she adopted the lecturing tone of her teacher’s aide days, “Separate courses into lessons on theory and practice. Allow squibs to take entry examinations in disciplines like potions, which are wandless. With the addition of non-magical subjects such as writing and mathematics to the course offerings, the existence of the decidedly possible history of magic, care of magical creatures, herbology, and astronomy tracks, theoretical courses in magical disciplines, and the potential of enrolling in potions, runes, or arithmancy, a squib child should have more than enough options to fill their time table.” He could hear the steely determination in her voice. This must have been the original seed of her educational reforms, the other proposals growing to support this core.

It was an incredibly revolutionary idea. His own heritage was proof of how far families with minimal magical talent could fall in their society, and as pureblood lines continued to intermarry, the prevalence of squibs would likely only grow. Tom understood that much thanks to his father’s insistence on having a solid science education. It was a poorly-kept secret that many of those families would marry first-generation purebloods for the sake of their birth rates, a practice that had always driven a wedge between the so-called progressive families like the Prewetts and the Shacklebolts and the traditional families such as the Blacks. Tom had never really bought into the idea that a pureblood family like the Prewetts could be considered meaningfully more progressive than another pureblood family; they still rejected half-bloods from their family tree, even if it was with less sneering prejudice. However, if that half-blood married another half-blood and produced a magical child with four magical grandparents, that child was “pure” enough to justify their inclusion in a pureblood house? He couldn’t accept the arbitrariness of these distinctions. At least the Blacks’ position was logically consistent, if biologically questionable.

Tom didn’t know that many squibs. He remembered the groundskeeper from Hogwarts had been a squib, though he hadn’t interacted much with the man, by design—Tom had only ever been looking to avoid the groundskeeper on his illicit late-night strolls. He thought he might have met a squib here or there in Diagon, perhaps someone’s cousin at some point, but nothing substantial. They had all seemed normal enough. Could it really be so simple to just drop them into Hogwarts alongside their magical counterparts?

“That would require a massive societal adjustment,” he finally settled on saying. 

“It all would, little rabbit, but it’s nothing more than what we currently ask of Muggle-raised children, who arrive into this world, unsupported, as minors.” She withdrew her hand from his groin and placed a fingertip on his nose. Though he mourned the loss of her gentle hold, cupping his most intimate parts, he leaned into the scent of his musk on her hands. She should always smell faintly of him. “Imagine the world where you and I were raised under this system. We are consummate Slytherins, but cultural conditioning caused our school peers to reject and harass us, despite our fitness. Instead, we could have occupied our rightful places from first year. You would never have suffered to that extent. You would have understood yourself, your power, for nearly your whole life. You would not have had to stumble over the transition while your wizard-raised classmates ran on ahead.”

And he would never have become her little rabbit, if he hadn’t fallen and needed her assistance. He tried not to dwell on that thought.

“So, Tom,” Hermione gathered her thoughts and pulled away from him, turning once they were separated to look him in the eye. “Do I have your support for this initiative? Will Lord Gaunt vote for my proposal?”

“I would vote for anything you propose, my love.” It was risky, the use of an endearment, but he had managed to keep her for almost an hour of lazy cuddling. He yearned for her affection; his chest ached with his want. He was calculating how long her scent would stay on his sheets. Tom needed her more than ever, and so it crushed him when her face turned expressionless and she pushed out of his bed.

“No, Tom. I only want your vote because you recognise that this is the correct action. I want your vote because you see how this will destabilize the current elite and pave the way for more radical platforms.” Her eyes were hard, and she was half-dressed. “I do not want your vote because you have the misplaced belief that it will land me in your bed more often.”

And that was the tragedy between them, really. She could never accept that he didn’t need her in his bed, not like that; he needed her in his life. The politics had always been a separate concern. He lived for the moments when she would touch him, hold him, tickle his skin with the faint brushes of her hair and fingers. Hermione was Tom’s source of romantic affection and he couldn’t bear to imagine life without her. He would wait as long as she needed for her to come around.

“Look,” she was trying to let him down gently; he knew the tone. “Let’s go out for dinner tonight. I’ll get out of your space.” With that, Hermione, once more fully clothed, walked out of the room and left him to dress alone and in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters I most strongly recommend reading my [commentary](https://phantomato.tumblr.com/post/639680870215745536/waterlogged-ch-11) for, if you’re feeling a bit off-kilter. And, or, leave me a comment down below to tell me off. I’ll take it!


	12. Chapter 12

Hermione’s proposal to form an educational reform commission, sponsored by Tom while he was wearing some very obvious nods to his Slytherin lineage, passed the Wizengamot vote easily. The bill was couched in such vague language, with such a large mandate, and Hermione had pulled numbers straight out of Ministry records to show the miserable relapse rates of Muggleborn students giving up on the wizarding world, and Tom played up the importance of taking pride in wizarding culture, and it was impossible to resist their effort. He looked far too handsome in his traditional robes on the cover of the _Daily Prophet_ to vote against.

Which left the responsibility of choosing the committee members. Tom and Hermione, of course, herself as a liaison from the Ministry with access to historical data, himself as one of the Wizengamot representations, would be the first two on the commission. He thought to invite Galatea Merrythought, recently retired and with a century of teaching behind her, as a representative of the Hogwarts perspective—the added benefit of snubbing Dumbledore was not lost on Hermione. Lords Selwyn and Longbottom rounded out house representation as a former Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, respectively, which left one main interest group unrepresented: squibs.

Not that the other members knew this would be an interest group when they had voted to fund the reform commission. The plan was for Tom to appoint a squib by fiat and let the members mumble their discontent amongst themselves, powerless to object to a young, charismatic leader with only the best intentions. And Tom knew just the squib to recruit.

In his school years, if one wanted to upset the famously-snooty Black family—and most people did want to upset them, the tossers—you gossiped about their squib uncle. Marius Black was well-known to have existed and to have been disowned by the family. If the rumors were true, his expulsion took out a Muggle-sympathizing uncle along the way. Having a Black squib on the commission, if he could be located and persuaded to join, would put paid to any attempt to criticize the choice. His birth family was too powerful to cross, and their inability to acknowledge him meant they couldn’t throw a fit, either. It was a perfect plan… if they could find him.

Tom wrote to Thoros and asked if he would be in town anytime soon. Thor’s half-blood cousin was good at finding people, and Tom would happily make use of him through Thoros again. Thor wrote back swiftly: _Sure,_ he said, _I’ll be at Avery’s party in August. Stop ignoring his invitations and show face!_

He grumbled as he pulled on his nice casual robes, that August evening, upset at having been hoodwinked by Thor into attending a reunion of the old Slytherin crew. Avery had sent an invite to this or that get-together every month and Tom had binned them all, sure that his pureblood schoolmates felt obligated to invite him, or, worse, only wanted his presence due to his newfound political position.

So it was quite a shock when he arrived and Avery smiled and slapped him on the back enthusiastically, shouting to the assembled men in his sitting parlor, “Look who’s arrived!”

“Zaichik!” Dolohov’s merry voice cut through the low din of the radio and chatter.

“Should’ve known Riddle would show when Thor did,” Malfoy grinned.

Thoros sat between Rosier and Lestrange on a sofa, but he kicked Rosier out of his seat when Tom appeared. Pulling Tom down next to him, he stage-whispered, “Ignore these idiots. They’re jealous of my friendship with a full Lord.”

Malfoy, always Malfoy, made a dismissive noise. “I’ll have you know that I’m very close with Grand-Mère.”

Tom couldn’t help himself. “Oh, would you like to know what color your next pair of socks will be?” he teased the platinum blond boy. “Or would you rather hear about how she’s up to ten pairs of baby booties? She doesn’t understand why you haven’t produced the next generation of albino prats.”

Abraxas looked stricken at the reference to his reproductive future and the room laughed at him, some boys’ mirth seeming a little panicked as they considered their own familial pressures. It broke the tension of Tom’s arrival, though, and the room slipped back into individual conversations soon after.

“You look good,” Thoros complimented him quietly, leaning toward Tom. “How has the first year been? I heard about your success in the summer session; congratulations.”

Tom smiled at his friend. He missed his quiet company. “Thank you. It’s solid work. I might not see many people under 100–”

“My father’s only 60!” Thoros interjected teasingly.

Tom rolled his eyes in response. “ _Many_ people, Thor, and your father dislikes my voting record enough that we barely speak. How are you his son?”

“Mum is much more personable,” his friend promised. “And I look like her, too, thank Merlin for miracles.”

“Well, then, I wish she represented the Nott seat,” Tom smirked back. “Your father is…” he jokingly shuddered as he gestured to his face, evoking the comical facial hair of Lord Cantankerus Nott, who had not moved past Victorian styling trends. Thor punched his shoulder and scolded, “That’s my father!,” but Tom let it go. “How is your apprenticeship?”

“It’s solid work,” Thoros echoed with a smile. “Though I see fewer people than you in my line of business. It’s mostly old ritual circles and dusty records.”

Tom looked at his friend carefully. “But you’re happy?”

“I am happy,” Thor answered without hesitation. “I couldn’t imagine not doing this.” He paused for a minute to let the topic settle before speaking again. “You wanted to talk to me about something. What is it?”

Returning to a serious tone, Tom asked, “Thor, does your cousin still find people?”

“Yeah, Edward made a business out of it. He’s got a nice little office off of Knockturn. Who do you need?” Thor looked at him curiously, and Tom appreciated how much he’d missed those hazel eyes. The whole night was making him nostalgic for their school years, only recently passed, but they felt like a lifetime ago after a year on the Wizengamot with Hermione as his main friend. She couldn’t be more different from Tom’s Slytherin boys if she tried.

“A squib relative of the Blacks, Marius. He’s probably about ten years older than us,” Tom said. “Do you remember how we’d drive Walburga wild by talking about her squib uncle? I want him for my commission.”

His friend looked confused, but nodded. “I’m not sure what you’re doing with squibs and wizarding education reforms, Tom,” he cautioned in a low voice so that it didn’t carry to the room, “but be careful. They are a very sore subject for pureblood families. I think Edward can find him, but promise you’ll be careful not to make too many enemies before you understand the dynamics.”

Tom only smiled back at his friend. “That’s the purpose of Marius, Thor. Who better to help us understand than a squib from the Black family?” When his friend’s expression was still concerned, Tom leaned toward him and rested his chin on Thoros’ shoulder. “I will be careful,” he whispered, “I promise you.”

“Oi!” Avery called from across the room. “We’ve let you two catch up, now’s time to share Riddle with the rest of us, Nott.”

Tom blushed and made to pull back, but Thoros slung an arm around his shoulders in a pose of cocky defiance. “You lot spent years making fun of us swots, and now that he’s a fancy git, you think I’m going to roll over for you?” He grinned. “Dolohov, get us some drinks and maybe I’ll let Tom grace you prats with his presence.”

“Still a swot,” Lestrange piped up from the other side of Thor, jabbing at the taller man. 

“A swot with nearly a foot on you,” Thoros menaced him in response. Thor was still a gangly, skinny thing, but he was at least 6’3” to Lestrange’s 5’8”, the tallest of the bunch, and the reminder set Lestrange to pouting dramatically.

“Oh, cheer up,” Avery encouraged Lestrange. “You’re the only one of us who has any luck with girls and Nott is perpetually single.”

“By choice!” Thoros insisted with mock offense, free hand over his heart.

Dolohov chose that moment to hand over the drinks, and Tom accepted his with a grimace. “Straight vodka, Dolohov?” he questioned the Russian. “Who let you buy the drinks?”

“Rosier,” Dolohov said with a shrug. Fucking Rosier always was too partial to the foreigner, whose national drink tended to make Tom feel a little too loose. He threw it back and promised himself he’d keep to one shot tonight. 

Lestrange took the pause to lecture the assembled men on their many failings with the fairer sex. “If I am more successful—” he doubtless was, always had been, “—it’s because I know they are women, not _girls_.” Rosier and Malfoy groaned in unison and Dolohov smiled wolfishly. “You have to listen to them and like them as people, not just as potential wives,” he implored the group. It was a change of pace from the man’s formative years, but Tom supposed if anyone was going to do it, it would be the boy who wrote his mum every other day. “Ask Tom, I heard he’s got something steady with old Head Girl Granger.”

Tom’s face took on the impassive mask he used to protect himself. “What would make you say that, Lestrange?” His voice was low and sibilant over the man’s name, and he felt Thor using his thumb to rub a small, reassuring circle into his back. With a conscious effort, Tom relaxed his shoulders into the touch.

“Oh, come off it,” Malfoy piped up from his side-conversation with Rosier. “You’re photographed in _Witch Weekly_ once a month, and you would know that if you spoke to anyone our age.”

Well that took the wind out of his sails. “Be nice,” Avery scolded. “At least Tom gets to have a fling without worrying about betrothal contracts. My parents are always berating me about putting more effort into those society balls, which would be easier if Belle’s cousin wasn’t such an over-protective prick!” He glared at Rosier with that statement, and Rosier glared right back.

Dolohov scoffed at the years-old pissing contest between the two boys. Rosier still thought he was doing his cousin a favor by slowing down her suitor, even though it was plain to see that she would be an Avery within a few years. They’d been crazy for each other for ages.

“How do you manage to keep your father placated, Nott?” Malfoy asked Thoros, whose head whipped around almost comically from where he’d been exchanging eye-rolls with Tom. “He, of all people, seems like he would be obsessed about making the next generation of purebloods.”

Thoros grimaced; his father’s preoccupation with bloodlines was well-known. As much as the boys in this room benefitted from blood purity politics and generations of wealth, they found overt discussion of the topic gauche. There was a reason no Blacks ever penetrated the friend group. 

For all that Tom found it hypocritical, and for all that their implicit rejection of non-pureblood women was a cancer, it made a difference. They didn’t want their sisters and daughters to marry a half-blood, but they accepted that some half-bloods could rise above their station, and that was enough for Tom to work with. He could shape them.

Soon, though, Tom was broken out of his thoughts by Thoros’ answer. “We barely speak,” he admitted. “I think I’ve said more to Tom’s father in the past few years than to my own.”

The room went silent. “You’ve met Tom’s _Muggle_ father?” Rosier asked into the void, his face stuck in an expression of morbid curiosity.

“What’s he like?” Lestrange asked quickly, mirroring the other man’s interest.

Tom wanted to fall through the floor. He hadn’t felt like this much of an oddity since he was 13.

Thoros, wonderful Thoros, pulled his arm tightly around Tom and sent a dark look at the others. “You wouldn’t ask something like that if Mr. Riddle was only a wizard you’d never met,” he admonished them. 

“Yeah, but—”

“No, you’re being rude,” Thor cut off the remark, “and you should all be ashamed of your poor manners.”

The Slytherin crew had all heard Thoros’ tone of voice before. It was the one he’d used during revision sessions to chastise the slackers, and when one ran afoul of Nott the Taskmaster, they knew to cut out their misbehavior. A chorus of apologies soon followed.

Tom had to down another vodka before he could bring himself to rejoin the conversation, and then a third drink, for good measure, so that he could comfortably endure the endless discussion of who was dating who. Lestrange held court; apparently he socialized with all of the women around their age, too, and acted as liaison between the men and women. Malfoy had his eyes on a Selwyn woman who was unimpressed with his latest attempt to ask her on a date, and it was some sort of exciting scandal.

He liked the familiarity of the group, even when some of that familiarity was uncomfortable. They boys weren’t perfect, but they were still his boys, and he vowed to make more of an effort to see them throughout the year. It was embarrassing that he knew more about Lady Malfoy’s tea salon guests than the lives of people his own age, and even worse that they knew private things about his life due to the gossip pages he’d always ignored.

Perhaps he’d go whenever Thoros was in town. After his third drink, Tom was playing with his friend’s tawny hair and wondering dangerous things about the other man.

“Thor, d’you… ?” Tom whispered, his tipsiness making him lean a bit too far forward into his friend’s space.

Thoros looked back at him fondly but shook his head tightly, once. “You’re seeing someone, Tom,” he quietly responded. “If we’re ever both unattached at the same time, I’m not opposed, but not now.”

All that Tom could say was “Oh.” Thor was right, of course, and Tom realized he’d drunk a bit more than he’d intended.

* * *

Cousin Edward came through surprisingly quickly, and, before the end of August, Tom and Hermione sat down for lunch with Marius Black in a posh Muggle social club. There had been some back-and-forth to find a place where Hermione was welcome, as a woman, and Tom was shocked that Marius conducted the correspondence by owl post.

Marius disabused Tom of the notion that he had gone anywhere near full Muggle early in their meal. 

“Well of course I shop in Diagon,” Marius answered his two incredulous dining companions when they were surprised to hear that he recently stopped into Flourish and Blotts. “You do remember that I own an owl, correct?”

Marius Black was everything the Black family personified. The man was a decade Tom’s senior and, like Orion, Alphard, and Cygnus before him, had the regal bearing, silver eyes, and curling, raven-black hair of his family. He sat as though he owned the world, and if not for the accident of his birth, he would have. Tom wasn’t sure what he would have expected out of a Sacred 28 squib, and had actively avoided forming assumptions before meeting the man, but this person halfway between both worlds, living in Muggle London and using magic as a tool, mixing cultures recklessly but defaulting to wizarding manners, was certainly not it. 

“I was disowned,” Black was saying, “but I am a Black.”

That was his contradiction in a single line: the man had been conditioned for eleven years to hold himself apart from others as a paragon of wizarding nobility, then had the rug pulled out from under him because he lacked magic, and yet his family’s money cushioned the fall. 

“Uncle Phineas took care of me. That’s the reason to keep track of your disgraced relatives in my sort of family. Where else do you dump your disappointments? They weren’t going to kill me.” Marius laughed when Tom and Hermione had the decency to look embarrassed. “Don’t believe those rumors. It’s not the Dark Ages, Merlin. There’s enough food to go around. My mother loves me, same as yours.”

Tom glowered at that.

“So what do you want with this bachelor squib?” Black asked, ignoring Tom’s dark look. Tom didn’t like how he emphasized the word _bachelor_ as he looked at Hermione, who was closer in age to him than to Tom. “I don’t do charitable donations, if you’re looking for that. It upsets mum, and she sends me howlers. Do you understand how much worse howlers are when you can’t incinerate them?” He looked amused with himself. “They’re much more terrible.”

Hermione launched into a prepared speech about their educational reform commission while Tom nodded along intently. Marius Black kept his face neutral as she talked, sipping his carbonated water politely between her arguments. He made no move to react until she had thoroughly finished her pitch.

Her expression wasn’t exactly hopeful, but it was more earnest than Tom had seen from Hermione in front of anyone else. She really, really wanted Marius to say yes.

Which is probably why she looked so angry when he only asked, “What’s in it for me?”

“What’s in it for _you_?” Her voice was low and cold. “For you, a man who apparently lives quite well on the money of blood purists who disowned you as a child? Is it not enough to want to tear apart an educational system that excluded you?”

Black’s silver eyes flashed with a sort of enraged joy as he laughed at her. “So you _are_ a Muggleborn, then. And you, Mr. Riddle, Lord Gaunt, are a half-blood?” Tom, who had kept his composure, nodded for the both of them. Marius turned back to Hermione as he spoke again. “Do you know what’s funny about being a squib, Miss Granger?” he goaded her, which set her to quivering indignantly. “You get to know purebloods and Muggles and very few people in-between. A squib born of a mixed marriage is almost unheard of, and a squib from two Muggles would just be another Muggle.” Marius paused, waiting for his words to sink into his audience. “Only pureblood families produce squibs, and I’m guessing you both know enough about genetics to guess why that is the case.”

He looked like a man possessed. “I want to have magic more than either of you will _ever_ be capable of understanding,” Marius grimly vowed. “At least you Muggleborns and half-bloods have a _peer group_. There might be other squibs my age, but I wouldn’t know. We hardly _socialize_. My experience has forced me to acknowledge the worth of the Muggle world, but I don’t want to tear down the wizarding establishment, Miss Granger, I want to be a part of it.”

“So take up a seat on the commission,” Tom said lazily, drawing stares from both of his companions. “If you want power in the wizarding world, this is power. This is what you would have been doing if you’d been born with magic, isn’t it?” He paused for effect and watched the other man’s silver eyes narrow in interest. “You’re the second son in a cadet branch of the Black family, so this might be even more responsibility than you would have been given. You already have the wealth to live comfortably, which is good: we can’t offer you more than a pittance for government work. But you would be in a position to change educational policy, and you know how centralized our educational system is. Any change you make will affect all children—all _people_ —born into our world.”

With a final, challenging glare, Tom said, “Take what should have been your birthright.”

Hermione looked stricken when Marius Black leered and shook Tom’s hand.

* * *

He should have known from her expression that she wouldn’t let the issue go.

Later that evening, when they returned to Tom’s flat, she let loose as soon as they were through the door. “How could you play on his elitism, Tom? We’re trying to remove the social structures that support families like his, not gather them all under a new banner and establish different structures.”

He gave her a disbelieving look. “Are we not doing exactly that?”

“No!” she thundered back. “Not using birthright superiority. That was a dirty trick that you played.”

“You wanted him on the commission,” Tom countered. “You wanted a squib, and I secured a squib.”

“ _You_ wanted him. You suggested Marius Black, you found the man, and apparently, your dirty chess was needed to get him.” She looked disgusted, with her arms crossed tightly in front of her and her neck arched back, as if she needed to be further away from him. “I would renege on his appointment if that wouldn’t do us more harm than good at this point.”

Tom frowned down at her, pausing from where he had moved to uncork a celebratory bottle of wine. “You didn’t suggest anyone else.”

Hermione dismissed him. “Squibs aren’t exactly common.”

“So,” he gestured broadly, an empty wine glass in his hand, “let me get this straight: you wanted a squib on the commission. I found, contacted, and secured a young, ambitious person matching that description. You’re upset with me because I managed that, when you couldn’t even suggest a name?”

“Take that back,” she hissed with a venomous look in her eyes.

Tom placed the glass down carefully, pausing as though to gather his response.

“No.”

“ _No?_ ” she nearly screamed.

“No,” he said delicately. “I did as you asked, and when your approach was unsuccessful with our audience, I used another path to achieve the same goal. Black will provide a necessary perspective, and we were wrong to think he would be sympathetic to Muggle-raised children. You and I both represent that experience, however, and we needed him more than we needed someone who would always agree with us.”

Hermione took a series of deep breaths, her knuckles turning white because she balled her hands into fists. When she spoke, she tried to reason with Tom. “You realize that with someone like Marius Black on the panel, everything will be much slower. Proposals will make it out of committee less frequently, and we’ll spend years debating legislation that we wanted to pass soon, only to settle for something less than our original vision.”

“We’ll see,” he shrugged.

“Stop living in denial,” Hermione mercilessly accused. “You’re thinking only of short-term victories.”

“I,” Tom shouted at her, “am thinking of having _any_ sort of victory, Hermione! We would hardly be in a better spot if we’d rejected him and spent six months trying to find another squib, or, God fucking forbid, run the commission without one!”

Hermione’s fists unclenched and her eyes darkened at his outburst. “Oh, _bunny_ ,” she nearly purred, her demeanor changing in an instant, “I love it when you swear like a Muggle.” And then she pounced, moving to him swiftly and dragging him to his bedroom as she tore at his clothes without care or concern for the damage. She was a hot mouth and sharp teeth all over his neck and chest as she savaged him, dragging her short nails along his side and using him roughly.

Tom was helpless but to follow her lead as she rode him. She was wet and greedy in her arousal, taking him harshly as she spat out vicious words. Hermione funnelled her anger into fucking. 

“You elitist piece of _shite_ ,” she moaned as she pumped his cock. “Filthy, rich bastard, living off of Daddy’s money, _don’t you touch me_ ,” she shoved his hand off of her breast, “fffucking arsehole!” She screamed as she came, and when her cunt contracted around him, he spent himself inside of her. 

Hermione rolled off of him after a minute, leaving the mess of their shag on Tom’s stomach as she settled into his side. 

After a beat, she said, “I do appreciate the work you did on this, little rabbit.” She nuzzled his chest. “I just wish it wasn’t a wanker like Black.”

All Tom could think to do was breathlessly agree. The emotional whiplash of the moment was still filtering through him. Perhaps that was why he asked her, without thinking through the implications, “Do you think the _Witch Weekly_ photographers caught us today?”

She went stiff by his side. “What do you mean by that?”

“The—er, I was recently made aware that we’ve been photographed together. I thought you would have seen,” he excused himself lamely. Why would she have seen? He’d never observed her with a copy of _Witch Weekly_ in her life. It was just that Tom couldn’t conceive of Hermione not being aware of her public image.

“I was not aware of that,” she confirmed curtly. Silence descended between them, and Tom ran his hand up and down her arm as he waited for her next move. He’d delivered unpleasant news; it was not fair to demand she say something right away. She drew herself up and out of the bed before she spoke again.

“I’m going to spend a few months apart from you, sweet bunny,” Hermione said sorrowfully. “I’ll come back to you, of course. However, I think a few months of seeing me out with others will quell the rumors.” At his crestfallen look, she soothed, “We need this commission to be successful, rabbit, you know that. We can’t let our personal lives invalidate that effort.” How could he argue against that?

* * *

Autumn passed by slowly, with Hermione keeping her distance and Thoros still away for his mastery. Tom saw his family for a long weekend and then went to one of Avery’s larger parties in September and took home a Flint woman; when she owled him about setting up a courtship the next week, he realized he should stick to pureblood men and half-blood or Muggleborn women. It wouldn’t do to get himself accidentally betrothed while waiting for Hermione to be ready to see him again.

They collaborated, through his newly-hired Ministry page (a half-blood Hufflepuff woman who Marguerite Smith had recommended), on a small proposal to establish Gringotts accounts and a modest yearly stipend for every incoming Hogwarts student who was not already named on an existing account. The project ended up with an asinine nickname from its detractors, but as it was not completely obvious in its targeting of Muggle-raised children, it squeaked through the Wizengamot with only minor concessions. They’d wanted more galleons for the stipend, but when it rolled out next year, each child entering school would have enough money to purchase their supplies for the entire year—in _addition_ to the pre-existing Hogwarts fund to help children whose parents could not support them. It wasn’t much, but over seven years, it might amount to their first few months’ rent after graduation, or years of adequate replacement robes for the child who couldn’t repair theirs. 

The educational commission began to meet, as well. Black was a formidable addition to the panel, able to stand up to both Hermione and Galatea, and contrary enough to shake Lords Longbottom and Selwyn out of their indolence. Marius Black and Francis Longbottom disagreed more vehemently than Marius and Hermione, when Francis could be arsed to argue. The old Gryffindor had been hiding some very traditionalist values behind his “I am a man of the Light” posturing. Nothing had left committee, yet, but Tom thought the primary school proposal might be ready for the full Wizengamot session in the new year, if everyone could compromise on a curriculum. Hermione was holding out for maths, and though Gardiner Selwyn (“Please, call me Gardy!”) was in favor—former Ravenclaw that he was, even if he hadn’t been a student since 1816–Francis was opposed, and Marius was antagonizing him and Hermione simultaneously by pretending to be part of the opposition. Galatea and Gardy told Tom stories about Hogwarts in the 1800s while the other three fought it out.

They reached a tentative agreement, which included the maths, just before the winter recess. The plan was to have Gardy, as a neutral party, sponsor the bill during the January term. It was a cause for celebration, and Tom gladly took his customary holiday break from the wizarding world at Riddle Manor. Thoros dropped by on his way back to his own family again this year, staying for a day so that he and Tom could take Thistle and Heather around the grounds for a brisk winter ride. Tom reconnected with his grandparents and father, proudly sharing stories about his position in government. In good cheer, he returned to London after his birthday, looking forward to resuming his relationship with Hermione.

He had no idea he wouldn’t see her again until summer.


	13. Chapter 13

Tom Riddle Sr. wrote to his son in early January and asked him to spend Saturdays at the manor. _I’m your father_ , he said, _and it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. When was the last time you rode regularly?_ With that one letter, he successfully persuaded Tom to take up a regular exercise routine and get out of his flat more, and Tom could only laugh—a decade prior, he could never have imagined having an overbearing parent.

It was nice, though, to push himself and Thistle each week. Riding was so incredibly ordinary, so completely divorced from the practice of magic, that he could let go of whatever was happening in the Wizengamot. He could forget, for a day, about the nebulous status of his relationship with Hermione. He could take up the role of being a child again, with no greater goal than to impress his father.

Of course, that didn’t mean that riding was free of stress. On a Saturday in early March, Tom cursed as Thistle fell out of his canter. His father, watching on from the fence bordering Madge’s paddock, shouted: “Again!”

“I can’t—he doesn’t want to stay in the canter,” Tom pleaded with Senior. His father had been attempting to teach him the discipline of dressage these past few weeks, and though it should be a natural pairing, as Tom fancied himself a man of supreme control, he was consistently failing at keeping his horse’s gait through a circle.

Tom Sr. shook his head disapprovingly at his son. “Thistle can manage a 20 meter circle at the canter.” Scratching Madge under the chin, which she had draped over her master’s shoulder, Senior muttered, “He does as much whenever Madge bites his arse, anyway.”

Junior returned to C, preparing to circle at E, but fell out of the canter again halfway through.

“He’s picking up on your hesitation,” his father counseled. “Don’t be afraid to keep asking him. Use your outer leg or your crop and let him know you’re serious and he’ll know that he can’t get away with taking advantage of your nervousness. Again.”

Tom got through the 20 meter circle on his next try, finishing the second half of his routine without further error. “Good!” his father praised him. “Keep your heels down in the corners. Again.”

Groaning, Tom turned Thistle to start over. “Why couldn’t you have had a less physically-demanding hobby?”

“I tried to learn to knit last year, but your grandmother hated teaching,” Senior admitted.

“Oh?” Tom used the distraction to pull Thistle up closer, keeping a healthy distance from Madge. Thistle might nicker at her in a friendly manner, but she tolerated no other horse receiving Tom Sr.’s attention. “Would you want to try if I taught you?”

His father responded with a question of his own. “Are you going to hold me to an impossible standard, Tom?”

Tom only needed a second to think. “Yes, probably.”

Senior laughed and leaned back into his chestnut mare. “You’ll have to practice extending your patience to me as much as I do with you, then.” Madge snorted as though to agree.

They started with casting on next week. Mary Riddle dropped in to debate whether a new knitter should be given a needle with already-cast stitches or taught to do their own, but orphans knitting for soldiers had no such luxuries as gradual introductions to the craft and Junior was insistent that his father be able to complete a garter square after his first day.

Senior was cursing and dropping stitches, and Tom was working on a sweater with rugby stripes for Thoros, when the conversation turned to his work on education reform.

“We’ve passed the proposal to establish public primary schooling, though between hiring for all of the positions and securing space, it won’t start until next year,” Tom explained. His father had expressed interest in the initiative over the winter holidays, and was especially keen on the idea of magical children learning ordinary school subjects. “I’m frustrated, though, that Hermione has been absent for our last few sessions. I haven’t seen her since December.”

Tom Sr. blinked, pausing his work to talk. “It’s March. Have you heard from her at all this year?”

“She sent a note about magical creatures back in January—some new project surely has her attention,” Junior justified. He’d also seen her name in the society pages more than once, now that he kept a watchful eye on them, but though Tom had attended many of those same events, he hadn’t run into her at any of them. It was enough to make him wonder if she was getting someone to print her name as a distraction. He would never stop by her office at work to check; she had forbidden that over a year ago.

“Hm.” Senior frowned.

“What?” Tom asked, continuing to knit but shifting his gaze so that he could stare at the older man.

His father gave a half-shrug and looked away. “I thought you were closer than that, is all.”

“We’re _very_ close,” Tom replied a bit too harshly, judging by Tom Sr.’s slight wince. “We’re just,” he continued in a softer tone, “prioritizing the success of our political platform right now.”

Senior did look at his son, now, his dark blue eyes freezing Tom in place. “Does that make you happy?”

The question was light, offhanded, but his father’s posture betrayed everything. There was only one answer Tom could provide. “Yes,” he lied.

“Good,” Tom Sr. very clearly pretended to accept the answer. “That’s all I want for you.”

His father’s words weighed on Tom for weeks. He should have been happy. Tom had accomplished so much already—his committee was _changing magical education_ , and in a generation or two, it would be impossible for a child to face the same experience as he or Hermione had gone through. Marius was laying the groundwork for increasing the Ministry’s support for squibs, and Tom figured it would only be a few years before the Wizengamot caught on to the fact that squib children needed some place to go after public primary and hastened to accept what would be their highly-detailed plan for Hogwarts integration. It was an unbelievable success, and if the project only truly began showing results in another 10 to 20 years, Tom could hardly be upset.

And that was just the most wide-ranging single portion of his impact. If Tom was to gather up each smaller change he’d helped push through, alongside Hermione, it amounted to an impressive range of social reforms. Nothing, other than the education reform, irreversibly broke wizarding society… but they cumulatively pushed everyone forward. Given more time, and a chance to win more allies among his seated peers, Tom was confident that he could achieve more. He was just 20, after all.

However, he wasn’t happy. He missed Hermione, of course, but he missed Thoros and even his father, between their visits. He missed his Slytherin boys and their easy jokes. Missing Hermione was a familiar state of being and hardly explained his deep-seated discontent.

He couldn’t identify the source of the feeling, he told himself. Perhaps he didn’t want to. Tom pushed off any introspection, filling his time with family after a year of neglecting those relationships. His father and grandparents were glad for the company, and Tom was in better physical shape than he’d been at any other point in his life, but he felt the weight of Tom Sr.’s concerned glances whenever the topic strayed toward Hermione.

Tom wrote to Thoros around the other man’s birthday, when he sent off the rugby-stripe jumper. It was a handsome navy and scarlet. He rather thought adult men should have clothing in something other than their Hogwarts house colors.

The language in Tom’s letter had been light and slightly stilted as he conveyed his personal updates and inquired after his friend, but Thoros cut through the pleasantries in his response.

_Tom_ , he began inauspiciously, _it’s so good to hear from you, and I love your gift. I don’t know that I’ll take it off until summer forces my hand._

_You don’t sound happy._ Tom snorted at that; he’d known as much for at least a month. It was easier to deride his absent friend’s choice to state the obvious than to acknowledge that he’d been hiding behind the distance. _If you’ll permit me a thought exercise,_ and Tom would permit Thoros nearly anything, _do you recall what I said to you last summer, at the party? I said that I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything with my life, right now, other than pursuing my mastery._ Tom remembered. He also remembered embarrassing himself with a drunken and rejected come-on, but Thoros was too refined to even hint at that. Tom made his own shame. _Can you imagine a different life for yourself, Tom? Could you be satisfied doing anything else with your time, no matter how similar or different?_

Tom had never lacked for imagination. He could see hundreds, perhaps thousands of worlds, each with a different set of actions taken but universally in pursuit of power and status. He would have found some way, no matter his lot in life. Without Hermione’s presence in school, he would have cultivated his peer group further. He could have gone to the Ministry and worked his way up the ladder using those connections, or he could have taken up some job as a front while he built a more illicit ring of followers covertly. There were worlds where he’d known Hermione but she actually had faded out of his life after one of her many goodbyes, and he would have carried on regardless, sometimes in the Wizengamot and sometimes elsewhere. 

For Salazar’s sake, if she truly disappeared at this juncture, it wasn’t as though he would stop working on education and blood purity. He’d spent too much time in it; the issues were as much his own as they were Hermione’s. She didn’t fucking _own_ his accomplishments.

She did _not_.

He’d done things without her. She’d been uninterested in the food labelling bill last winter, calling it “incremental.” And this spring, his collaboration with Lady Flint, of all people, on property rights had led to more than one half-blood in his extended social circle reclaiming an ancestral home.

However, for as many visions of alternative lives as he could conjure, none held Hermione. Tom tried to force it, sitting alone one night with his journal. Hermione’s old hair tie marked the page; he’d kept hold of it for a decade, now. Even with its reassuring presence, he couldn’t imagine a world where she’d settled in his life.

Hermione wouldn’t have married him. He didn’t really want that—and wasn’t that a startling thought? He was young. Maybe in some distant future, like his late twenties, he could imagine marriage. Fundamentally, Tom couldn’t picture a Hermione that was more giving. He’d love that. He craved that. But wanting didn’t change reality.

How was it that the sound of a lonelier life made him happier?

Trust Thoros to disrupt Tom’s understanding of himself. He penned a short and unsatisfying response to his friend before boxing away those thoughts. It wasn’t long after, as spring rolled into summer once again, that Hermione reappeared.

* * *

Tom eyed the stack of parchment and folders teetering on his home desk with wariness. Hermione had been back in town for a week and spent most of it camped in his flat, writing and collating endless documents that she hadn’t shared. She’d gone so far as to ward them for privacy; he could have broken the spell, but her trust was worth preserving. Tom spent Saturday with his father, much to her chagrin—she’d wanted to present her work that first weekend—but on Sunday morning, he took a seat on a spare chair and prepared for her presentation. “What have we been working on this time, then?” Tom asked.

“Elves,” she responded readily.

Well. She had penned a note about magical creatures back at the start of the year. “What could possibly be interesting about house elves?”

Hermione’s head shot up and she fixed him with a hard look. “Elves,” she emphasized. “Their species predates the concept of a house as we presently understand it, which is interesting enough on its own. However, that’s not the primary issue, here. Elves are the backbone of our society. They provide nearly all domestic labor in wealthy families and in our most prominent institutions, yes?”

Tom nodded his agreement. He hadn’t often thought about elves in his life, not owning one, but he knew that much was true.

“However, their bondage to wizards is slavery. They are not compensated for their labor, they have no choice to stop working, they are considered to be property, and the rights to their ownership are continued throughout their genetic lines. An elvish baby is born into slavery because his mother was a slave.” She counted off these points with her fingers, jerking her hand at each addition to accentuate them. He watched her fingers raptly. “You might say to me, `But Hermione, aren’t elves happy to work for us?’”

Tom interjected: “I did not say that—”

Hermione continued without listening. “There is no such thing as consent under slavery, and the idea that there could be is a lie we tell ourselves because elf ownership, made possible only by the enslavement of an entire race, is aspirational in our culture. The wealthiest pureblood families enslave multiple elves to handle domestic chores and so to aim for that lifestyle, one must necessarily consider enslavement to be acceptable. The current pureblood lifestyle _does not exist_ in the absence of enslaved elves. Elves feed and nanny their children. Elves cook their food. Elves clean their homes. And because the elves are slaves, they do this without sick leave, without monetary compensation, without regard to their essential personhood as a sentient magical being.”

She was animated, her shoulders moving rapidly as she gestured along with her speech. Hermione’s hair was well-tamed, but in moments like this, Tom could see the suggestion of an untucked curl begin to worm its way out of her chignon, and he wanted to pull that curl, to let it fly free and wave about as wildly as its owner. He kept himself still.

Hermione continued her tirade, saying, “If elves were not enslaved, none of this would be possible. Wealthy families would need to hire paid domestic labor, and those positions would be subject to our employment laws—which, yes, are insufficiently protective of workers, but they exist—and accept that live-in labor is rarer and costs more than hiring day labor and completing some of your own domestic responsibilities. Plus, elves do unnecessary work as a deliberate show of excess. The floors can stand to be scrubbed once a week, not once per day.”

Tom was sufficiently bored of Hermione’s repetition and moved to speak. “Yes, and paid domestic work offers employment opportunities for more witches and wizards, I see your goals. How are you going to free the elves?”

She gave him an annoyed glare but moved along, running her hands along her hair to smooth it back into place as she gathered her thoughts. “I won’t be freeing anyone, I suppose. I’m offering my services as a lobbyist and a researcher to a group of elves in Norway who specialise in this sort of thing. They include a number of expatriate British elves who have joined the Norwegian communities and can help communicate with the enslaved British population, but they’ve also had success in the past in ending enslavement in some of the colonies. The United States ended elf enslavement in 1892, Tom. We’re behind the United States.”

“We’re behind the Muggles, too,” he offered, surprising himself as much as Hermione, who simply stared at him with her mouth open. “Well... it’s true. Muggles here ended slavery ages ago. It’s sort of embarrassing, isn’t it? To uphold something as an essential part of our culture that even the Muggles consider immoral. It’s a thorn in the side of any of our claims to be a more sophisticated culture.”

“Oh, my little rabbit, you are _so_ clever!” Hermione launched herself across the desk to embrace him, and after a moment of being startled, he pulled her bodily forward to tighten the hug. Merlin, she smelled like love. 

Too fast, she was drawing back, resettling the mussed desk and scrounging for quill and parchment to note his thoughts. “Yes, we’ll just have to make that a talking point, it will be mortifying for families like the Blacks and Malfoys... Tom, such a good bunny... so I have your support?”

He could still feel the heat of his cheeks from her endearment when he responded in the affirmative. “Mine, of course, and likely the Ministry seats. Make sure to point out that wages for domestic labor are taxable income; as long as they get their cut, they’ll sign on. Many of the familial seats will be difficult to persuade, but given that this is a long-term effort, correct?” She nodded quickly. “Yes, then we may be able to talk them into an abstention. Macmillan, Fawley, Diggory, and Abbott were all Hufflepuffs, I think. They might be swayed by an argument about mercy, though it’s a patronizing argument to make. Ollivander would support you—it’s a poorly-kept secret that his family has mixed heritage. You might be able to talk Longbottom and Crouch into abstentions. It’s—it will be in an uphill battle, to be sure. What does the Norwegian group envision as a future for British elves when they are no longer enslaved?”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she answered. “Oh, that’s the best part. We engage in a full-scale renegotiation of the status of magical beings. I’m suggesting recognizing the autonomy of elves, centaurs, and other beings. Each group has their own culture, their own expression of magic, and their own society—humans never even gave them a choice regarding the International Statute of Secrecy, can you imagine? Being bound under pain of imprisonment, the Kiss, or death by a massive law that your ancestors weren’t even included in the creation of? It’s an indescribable atrocity.”

Hermione looked smug, her pointy chin jutting proudly forward as she tapped her quill on the page before her. He picked up her fidgeting hand, plucking the quill out, and raised it to his mouth so that he could kiss each restless finger. Tom smirked as her cheeks turned pink and she cleared her throat, clearly having difficulty containing her reaction to his obvious affection.

“This is an extraordinary opportunity, Hermione,” he said smoothly. “Please, let me help you celebrate it.”

“I won’t celebrate until Lord Black has abstained from voting against our eventual proposal,” she vowed darkly as she snatched back her hand and Tom sighed. Her fear of acknowledging this thing between them was so tiresome, and he was no longer a fresh graduate and willing to settle for any scrap of affection she deigned to share. Grumpily, he stood and removed himself from the room, ignoring whatever protests she might have tried to lodge.

* * *

It wasn’t until some weeks later that Tom realized the implications of Hermione’s new project. Truly, it had taken her absence from another education reform committee meeting—the first this year held since she had returned to Britain—to prompt his understanding. She had completely moved on from her prior work.

He confronted her after dinner on a night he had contrived to avoid sex. Tom wanted to be in the clearest possible state of mind for this conversation.

“Hermione,” he said evenly, “do you plan to attend the education committee meeting next month? I believe you indicated you would be in town at the time.” 

She was clever enough to understand his play and Slytherin enough not to call it directly. “Tom, you know I’m busy. You’re there; you can represent our interests,” she said, casually brushing the loose mass of her hair over her shoulders.

“See, that’s my issue, Hermione.” His tone was cold and unwavering. “I’m not sure that you can rightly call them our interests if you’re no longer present; the more time you spend away, the more likely it is that you diverge from current educational policy. Or have you been keeping up with the meeting notes, despite your absence?” Tom watched her closely. She did not lift her head to meet his eyes. “As I thought, then. I owe you this much: I’m bringing the issue of your replacement on the committee to a vote at the next meeting, if you’re not present.”

Now she did look up, her expression livid. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said, so certain in her authority that she couldn’t bring herself to believe his words. Well. He would show her this was no idle threat.

“I’ve found someone who would serve well. She’s a Muggle-raised Hufflepuff, a first-generation witch about fifteen years my senior. She comes highly recommended by Galatea and is a well-placed Ministry employee. I anticipate no difficulties getting her appointment approved, and Salazar knows that Marius and Francis will be in favor of anything that removes you from their lives.” It was a low blow, invoking the others’ personal dislike of Hermione, but Tom was feeling spiteful tonight. She thought she could just disappear and maintain the same level of influence. That was unconscionable. 

Her eyes narrowed at the jab but she did not react to it directly, instead reasserting her original claim. “I’m _busy_ , Tom. Are you asking me to drop my advocacy for magical beings? Are you suggesting that you value the continued supremacy of human magic users?”

“Of course not,” Tom bristled at the false dichotomy, “You know your work is important, but _this is too_. You can’t just abdicate your seat and expect us to accept that! You can’t expect _me_ to accept that. This—this matters to me, Hermione. Education is my issue. Your disappearance hurts our progress. We wait ages to hear from you, only to receive nonanswers. Half of our proposals don’t make it out of committee because we have a member missing. You need to _resign_ if you’ve moved on.”

Hermione let out an annoyed sigh, rubbing her temples in her delicate fingers as though Tom was an unreasonable nuisance. He hated it. He hated the sight of her exasperation, he hated being made to feel like a needy child, and finally, she noticed that.

“Oh, my sweet bunny,” she said, standing from her seat to join Tom on his sofa, “I’m sorry. I’m irritated, yes, but I am sorry. It’s a challenge for me to step back from things that I care about—and you _know_ how much I care about our projects—but you’re right, of course. I need to trust that when I delegate something to you, you’ll take care of it.” She brought a hand to his cheek and held his face lightly. Tom couldn’t help but lean into her touch.

“Were you planning to share your travel schedule with me?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“I think it may be too inconsistent for long-term notice,” she replied evasively.

“Do you have a timeframe for this work with beings?” Tom continued, pressing for everything he could in this rare moment of openness between them.

“Well—years, of course. Nothing will happen overnight,” she said, not even blinking.

Now it was Tom’s turn to sigh. “You mean decades, Hermione.” He removed her hand from his cheek and held it between his own. “This will be decades of work, just like the education reforms, and those are an easier goal to reach. Do you plan to stay involved for all that time?”

“I’ll do what is required to see the work through,” she vowed quietly. That could mean anything, Tom knew. She could be personally lobbying for being rights until the day she died, or she could find some young idealist to entrust with the endeavor next year. “You will always be a priority in my life, Tom. You know that, right? I’ll always come back for you.”

He didn’t really believe her. How could he? But he wanted to, and wanting was enough.

They sat quietly, holding each other for just a bit longer. When Hermione finally stood to leave, she spied the old hair tie marking his journal. He’d left it on a side table, with the green silk ribbon plainly visible, and so he should have expected—

“Oh, is this one of my hair ties? Thank goodness I leave those all around.” This was a lie. She never unintentionally left personal belongings at his flat. “I desperately need to tie back my hair.” And he protested, made an abortive noise as she yanked his last treasure from their shared childhood out from the pages of his journal, but she dismissed the concern immediately as she secured her hair. “Oh, use a scrap of parchment. It’s just a bookmark.”


	14. Chapter 14

Tom and Hermione returned to their usual routine in the ensuing months, ignoring their building disagreements and spending time together when she was around. Then, in early autumn, Hermione fell ill. She arrived at Tom’s flat one night for their usual dalliance, but her tone was off, and she tottered just a bit too much when pulling him to bed, and he stepped back to evaluate her condition. “Are you feeling well?” Tom asked, as if she were the type of person to answer truthfully.

“‘M fine, get undressed,” she mumbled unconvincingly, and so Tom took drastic action. He kissed her forehead, really just a light buss of his lips across her skin, and even her usual disapproving scowl was halfhearted.

“You have a fever, Hermione,” he reported dutifully. “You get undressed. I’m fetching some pyjamas.” He hurried her into a spare set of his flannel nightclothes, a matched pair in grey that washed her out, but she looked adorable in the oversized cotton. “To bed with you. I’m bringing soup.”

She slept fitfully after dinner, all the while Tom cooled her face with a damp washcloth and read to her from the Prophet. When she tried to comment on the news, squinting and puffing at the effort of staying focused, he pushed her back down and claimed he would read her The Velveteen Rabbit if she didn’t rest. He had never purchased his own copy, but he would happily threaten to break into her flat if she would agree to settle and be quiet. Even while sick, she was cognizant that he could follow through with the threat. He wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed that after years, she still had never invited him to see her flat, or grateful that she had at last agreed to go back to sleep. He held her all night.

With the dawn of morning, she seemed much recovered. Tom kissed her forehead again, testing for temperature, and was about to pronounce her fever gone when he noticed the faint blush on her cheeks and the quiet smile on her face. He seized the opportunity, saying, “Your fever may have gone down, but you are quite flushed. Let me check again to be safe.” He kissed her right cheek and found it warm under his lips. “Oh, yes, slightly elevated. Better test again to confirm.” Her blush deepened as he moved to her left and planted a lingering peck. “Definitely warm. You may still be sick; best to stay in bed with me today, Hermione. I wouldn’t want you to risk making your condition worse.” Tom’s smirk was charming and perfect and if it had been any other person in his bed, he would have found the subsequent reaction understandable.

When Hermione pulled him down to her face to kiss him full on the lips, though, he was only able to register surprise. His eyes reflected his hesitance, asking for proof that this was real, that she wasn’t just experiencing a moment of delirium in her lingering illness. She answered him with another kiss and he gave himself over to her completely.

Tom asked to deepen the kiss quickly, testing her lips with his tongue until she parted them and he could slip through, behind her teeth, to tease her hot and sticky mouth. She tasted like the sweet rot of morning breath, made worse by the sweaty fatigue of a day’s sickness, but she was also indescribably Hermione and precious beyond words no matter how foul. He tasted her teeth and tongue and lips without reservation. While his mouth worked against hers, he threaded his hands through her hair, palms against her neck and cheeks, caressing the gorgeous face that was so often denied to his touch.

Hermione responded with equal fervor, dragging fingers through his hair and along the curve of his ears, causing him to sigh and surrender to her. She broke away from his mouth and kissed up, along his nose and brow, as he placed wet, open-mouthed kisses against her jaw. Tom had been somewhat hard upon waking, but this experience of finally tasting Hermione, of kissing her like a lover, had him straining against his flannel bottoms. His pathetic neediness drove him to grind himself against her, revealing his weakness. He started to draw away, preempting her rejection, but she held him to her and purred into his mouth. And oh, Tom was lost.

Things moved quickly from there. With her interest clearly established, he continued the kiss and stripped off their pyjamas, breaking contact with her welcoming mouth only long enough to help her push the flannel over her feet before resuming. When they were both naked, he ran his hands up and down her body, pausing to enjoy how her nipples responded to his touch, how her soft and sleepy form curved under his palm. He had unrestricted access to her and he wasn’t sure how to process it, wanting to be everywhere at once. She decided for him, throwing a leg over his hip and rubbing her wet cunt over his length insistently until he was jerking wildly, nearly mad with his need. Again, he pulled back to look at her for confirmation.

Hermione nodded. Tom faltered. He’d never done this with her before. He’d had sex with plenty of people, he knew how to lie on top of a partner and thrust, but Hermione had always controlled penetration with him. She leveraged her leg over his side and rolled them, placing herself beneath Tom and situating his narrow hips solidly between her thighs, and still he was filled with uncertainty. Hermione kissed him gently, stroking his tongue and teeth with her own as he calmed. He felt the reassuring touch of her hands on his back, pulling him close and urging him on.

And so he moved. He lined himself up with her entrance, and for the first time in their lives, Tom thrust forward to take her. It was... different, this way. Somewhat shallower than when she was on top of him, but unlike that position, this one had them touching along almost their full bodies. Her breasts brushed against his chest with each thrust and he nearly cried from joy. She was just so much more present, as he kissed and held and touched her, and Tom barely processed his own arousal, at first, he was so caught up in the intimacy of their position.

When Hermione started to roll her hips into him, asking for more, he remembered the purpose of this act. Tom brought a hand down to her clit, rubbing in the fast circles that she preferred, until he saw her eyes drift shut and felt her contract around him. She came rapidly, her cries of release muffled in the early morning hours, and he paused his own movements to admire the way her mouth opened and her chest heaved. He alternated between kissing and nuzzling her as she came down, content to just feel her around and under him and to bear witness to her pleasure.

Magnificent creature that she was, she eventually blinked her eyes open, smiled, and wiggled her hips suggestively. Tom snuggled closer to her neck, implicitly offering to withdraw, but she clenched around his erection and he groaned, low and long, and gave in. He only needed a few erratic pumps to finish, spurting his release deep within her and letting a serene satisfaction wash over him.

They lay together for long, silent minutes after he finished, neither moving to separate from their full-body embrace, drifting inexorably back to sleep. Tom’s last waking thought was one of contented joy at loving and feeling loved by this woman.

* * *

Hermione was the first to wake again, much later in the morning. Tom roused soon after in response to her shifting to refasten her borrowed shirt, and he smiled as the bright sunlight illuminated the sliver of skin she sought to cover.

Tom and Hermione had made love. Finally, finally, they had come together with equal affection. It was in that moment, motivated by the morning they had shared, that he made the decision that would change everything.

“I want a real relationship with you, Hermione.” Tom winced as his voice came out more pleadingly than intended, but he continued despite his embarrassment. “I’m tired of this dance where we pretend like we are only a casual arrangement. Let’s date exclusively. Go out with me for a romantic dinner. Let me court you, or if you don’t want courtship, tell me how you want to be pursued. Pursue me! I don’t mind that you’re always traveling. I can tolerate the distance. Merlin, please just give us a chance to try.”

His heart sank lower with every sentence as her expression stayed impassive, but he clung to the shred of hope that had sustained him for years. “I am incredibly serious about you, Hermione. I don’t want this with anyone else. I know that you have reservations, and I know it would take work to redefine us, but I am willing to put that work in with you. I lo—”

“No.” Hermione’s response was rapid, cutting off the irreversible declaration.

“No?” Tom’s voice broke over the word.

“No, Tom, I—I can’t do that. We’re good as we are, you know? We’re good. It works. I want this. I want what we have. Don’t... don’t ask me to make it something more.” She wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t making eye contact, and had drawn the sheet close to her chest in a protective gesture.

“We’re not good,” he said in disbelief. “If we were good, I wouldn’t be asking this. If I was good with this, I wouldn’t be asking for something real. Why?” He could feel the damnable sting of tears, something that he hadn’t indulged in since boyhood. He bit his cheek and tried to hold back, to stay focused, to understand.

“Why? Because—”

But he cut her off, recognising that he would only get a deflection, or, worse, a lie. “No, never mind. I—I can’t—”

And Hermione jumped in again, forcing him to accept her insufficient argument. Anything would be insufficient, really, because he knew that she wanted him. He’d seen the way she acted that morning. He’d watched her return to him for years. “Tom, you’re just—you’re fixated on me,” she said, settling on her argument, “Because I helped you when you were a child. Because I was around for some of those years. That’s... not a reason to date someone.”

“But it is an acceptable reason to fuck someone, Hermione?” He kept back none of his bitter edge, speaking so sharply that she flinched away from him. “Because you were always interested in fucking me, as I recall. Ever since I graduated, you’ve been happy to fuck me. I have always wanted more than casual sex, and you know that. You know that. Why is it okay for us to share this but not an emotional connection? Why is it okay for you to take what you want, but not for me to ask for what I want? Why am I expected to compromise? Why am I not trusted to know what I fucking want as an adult man?”

Tom had jumped up, away from her, as he spoke. Unheeding of his own nudity, he paced the length of the bed angrily. He didn’t care to think about how his agitation might cause her discomfort right now.

“How could you possibly know, Tom? You were an abused child,” she said cruelly, “and I was the first person to comfort you. You’ve never dated anyone else. You’re looking for validation from me because it’s safe and comfortable.” She was insistent, now, fighting back with strength rather than answering his questions. 

He would not let her escape.

“Hermione,” his voice turned cold, “you assume too much.”

Tom stopped pacing. He stood at the foot of the bed and stared her down. “I have dated. Seventh year, Marguerite Smith. We went to Hogsmeade every weekend for two months, almost through NEWTs.

“Percival Montague, nearly the entire autumn of my 18th year, after you fucked me and called it a graduation gift.”

“Percival is a—”

“A male name, yes,” Tom confirmed, his thoughts turning even more bitter at the way that seemed to surprise and upset her. “You interrupted me.”

“Maude Fortescue, when I was 19 and you were with Prewett. Darwin Olyphant, another man, earlier this year when you spent five months out of the country without warning or communication. Shall I go on? Would you like an accounting of everyone I have slept with during my life, as well? I have dozens of names for you, Hermione. We have never been exclusive.”

She blustered through an attempt at being affronted. “I—I never—you never said—”

“Oh, save your pretension,” Tom interrupted. “At first, I just had to know. I was so unaccustomed to affection. Was it all equally fulfilling? Would it be just as good coming from someone else? I tried with girls. When that didn’t work, I tried with boys. The physical release has always been satisfying; that part was demonstrably never at issue. But the affection was missing.

“And you fucked me. I was 18, Hermione. I was barely formed, and I was 18, and you fucked me and it was life-altering and then you just left me. You walked right back out of my life as if it had never happened. Did you know that I chased that feeling? It scared poor Percival half to death when I asked him to tie me up. I had to know if it was the type of sex, you see. If it was you or if it was the bondage. You’re not the only person interested in that, of course, though it took me many tries to find another person consistently willing to tie me up. It wasn’t the bondage, though. It wasn’t even the way you held me after. You never did that again, did you notice? Why not? Was that the last vestige of your affection from my youth?

“It feels like that’s the case, sometimes. Other times, you fucking smile like you never put me through this, like you would actually hold me again, actually offer comfort and give a damn about my feelings. You let me kiss you, you almost hug me, you touch my fucking neck and I think we’re about to turn a corner. But then you never do, and I remember that you haven’t willingly offered real affection in my entire adult life, you just come by three times a week to fuck, unless you’re dating someone, in which case I have to wait to find out from the Prophet society pages.”

Tom’s chest was heaving from his rant and he finally realized his state of undress. Snatching his bottoms from the tangled mass of the bed, he jammed his legs through and yanked the drawstring so forcefully that the resulting knot was uneven. He looked disheveled and distraught, but he was too far gone to care, too far gone to bother cataloging Hermione’s emotional state. He hadn’t been this worked up since he was a child, only this time, he wouldn’t trust Hermione to talk him down.

“I’m—I’m done.” He started to crumple as the weight of his outburst landed on him. “You act like—this morning is just the last in a string of examples, but I think it’s the last one I can tolerate. You seem to be open to more, and I ask, I always fucking ask, and you shoot me down and pretend like I, we, should just be happy with this forever. What’s your goal, Hermione? What do you want, ten years from now? Because I will give you one last chance to tell me, fuck, just to say that you’re open to trying, not a promise of anything, just that you’re willing to bloody try with me.”

Her pained look was enough of an answer for him.

“Well. Well, then. This is goodbye, I guess, because I will not keep waiting around for you, and I cannot keep pretending like what you apparently want from me is remotely acceptable to me.” He let out a long sigh, vacating all air from his lungs until they burned, just to feel that he was still really there, that he was doing this. Unfortunately, he was. 

“Hermione, it’s only ever been you. It won’t be anyone else. Just... know that, okay? Because I might date again some day, but I need you to know, no matter what the Prophet might say when I’m old and settled: you were never right about me. It would only ever have been you, and no matter how much gratitude I have for what you did for me back in school, that’s not the same as attraction. But my affection isn’t enough to keep me satisfied as your salve for boredom. Your backup plan? I neither know nor care.” Tom closed his eyes and breathed for just a few seconds, steeling himself for what he knew must come next.

He looked at her directly. Tom took in her soft brown eyes, so filled with hurt and bewilderment; he had caused that. He observed her defensive posture, how she had covered herself in clothing and blankets while he remained half-naked to her gaze. He watched the face of the woman he’d loved for years, searching for any trace of reciprocation, and not just pity or anger, in those familiar features, and only when he could find none—and God, he tried, he fucking tried—did he speak.

“Please... see yourself out,” he said tiredly, letting his head drop into his hand, “I don’t want you to call on me again.”


	15. Chapter 15

Tom and Hermione weren’t talking.

They maintained a mutual silence for the first month after Tom ended their relationship. He couldn’t say what she did during that month—he intentionally avoided her usual haunts, stayed in more often, and spent more time at Riddle Manor—but she did not reach out. He was grateful for that break.

Her first attempt to contact him again was a letter that arrived about five weeks after their argument. She owled him at home, which felt unbearably familiar, and he couldn’t stand to open the envelope for two days. He steeled himself on a Tuesday evening and made a go of it. His weekday responsibilities would help him avoid collapsing into an anxious mess, no matter the contents.

Hermione wrote about regrets. She regretted letting their relationship grow into something that blurred the boundaries of romance and sex. She regretted that he had felt hurt by her actions. She was just overflowing with regret that the transition from her role as his mentor to her role as his friend hadn’t been clearly delineated for him. Oh, she expressed sorrow.

She hadn’t conveyed anything about a change of mind, however. She hadn’t apologized for anything.

Tom thought it was rather easy to experience regret—all that required was the wish that something had gone a different way, and, well, wasn’t that obvious? Neither of them were currently happy. Of course Hermione and Tom regretted that years of companionship should end so unfortunately. Apologies were rather more difficult. She would have to agree that she’d caused him harm, intended or not.

He delayed posting a response until he could manage reading through the letter without either laughing or crying, and that was a miscalculation, because she started knocking on his front door later that week.

Tom fled the city for the safe haven of the Riddle home in the country.

After a week of hiding out in his adolescent bedroom, his father confronted him, asking, “Why have you been avoiding your life?”

And Tom sighed, he rolled his eyes and looked away, he tried to viciously internalize and squash every errant emotion like so much inconsequential rubbish, but he hadn’t truly talked to anyone about the experience and couldn’t resist the quiet acceptance on offer now. “I stopped seeing Hermione,” he said, faintly proud of how his voice did not crack over the words.

“I’m sorry,” Tom Sr. replied. He looped an arm around Tom’s shoulder, half-embracing his son. “I know that she meant a great deal to you.”

Tom broke. He laughed, frantic and high-pitched, convulsing in his father’s hold at the incredulity of it all. That he would be looking forward to his twenties with a father but without Hermione was impossible, and yet, that was the reality he would have to live. 

“She can’t—” he tried to speak, but what words were appropriate? She can’t love me? Why the fuck had he tried so hard for so long, then? “I thought about just going along with it,” Tom said instead. “She wants to be _friends_ again, she wrote,” he admitted that she had reached out. That cat was out of the bag. “I wondered if I could, right, just be a friend, but either she’ll want to—to be more than just friends, and less than a spouse,” Tom awkwardly course-corrected away from vulgarity mid-sentence, “or, perhaps worse, she won’t. She could maintain her… physical distance and I think that might be even less palatable.”

His father took his outburst in stride as much as was possible. He pulled Tom aside, pushing him gently down to a sofa in an attempt to minimize his distress. He kept his hand on Tom’s shoulder and didn’t even flinch at the allusion to Tom’s sexual promiscuity. 

He was a good father.

He was supposed to have been a bad father. Tom had spent years of his life prepared for this man to be a bad father, to be unsupportive, to verbalize how little he wanted Tom. He had been prepared for Tom Riddle Sr. to fear and malign his magic, and to persecute him for its practice. He’d planned to escape the confines of the Riddle version of Muggledom as soon as he was able.

And—and he’d prepared for Hermione to be his center. He had expected her to want him above all others, and to feel more wanted by her than by anyone else in his life. He and Hermione were going to take on their fucked world and reshape it in their image, their combined intelligence and ambition an unstoppable force.

But he was 21 and working very hard to keep a stoic face while sitting on a Victorian-era antique in a Muggle manor with his Muggle father holding him steady. Hermione was very much elsewhere, waiting for him to put aside years of romantic desire for her sake. It was not _supposed_ to have gone like this.

“You are always welcome at home,” his father said, and Tom was laid low again.

He responded to her letter the night he returned to his flat. Tom sent his regrets that he couldn’t resume their friendship so casually. He debated whether he should offer the chance for them to reconnect after more time; including a request that she owl again in six months wouldn’t be unreasonable. He stayed his hand, however, and determined that he could commit to waiting without that burden looming ahead of him.

It was alright until late in the autumn session of the Wizengamot. Tom and Hermione had frequently used the month running up to the winter recess as an opportunity to push through small pieces of legislation, as holiday cheer and end-of-year laziness made many members more generous. She was waiting for him by his office one morning in November, a thick sheaf of parchment in hand, the same way she used to bring him her draft proposals. 

He was so stunned by her presence that he turned around at the sight of her and went straight to the Wizengamot chamber, where he could keep a wooden railing and at least one auror between them at all times. Tom would rather endure the tedium of Lady Flint’s winter garden preparation than find out how, precisely, Hermione had planned to re-engage their professional relationship.

Tom was not shocked when she tried again three days the following week, at which point he asked his assistant to turn her away, nor when she attempted to send the proposal to his office via interdepartmental page.

That was, however, the week he decided to move home.

The London flat had served its purpose. He had too few memories of it that were independent from his relationship with Hermione, and even if he had to break the lease half a year early, he needed to be out.

Tom didn’t need to live there. He would set up a floo connection at the manor; that was simple enough for a lord to request. He could apparate or floo anywhere necessary. He hardly went out and socialized regularly. And… if he was to be honest, which he was actively practicing these days, the thought of living with his family appealed to him. His grandparents were getting older. His father was his best support. He could focus on his riding and fill his recently-empty time with something decidedly not Hermione.

So he moved home. He moved home and he whipped votes to oppose Hermione’s latest bill.

It wasn’t the case that Tom Riddle rejected her work out of spite for his spurned advance. No, to do that would have been petulant, and though Tom could occasionally indulge himself in bouts of childish behavior, Lord Gaunt never would. Instead, it was because he was no longer poring over draft legislation with her, and so he would read her proposals at the same time as every other member of the Wizengamot. And as it turned out, those comments and suggestions that he usually had for her first drafts became reasons to vote against a proposal. 

This recent effort was a lycanthropy bill, apparently designed as a mild first entry into expanding magical beings’ rights. Tom agreed with the use of it, especially in restoring heirship rights to eldest children afflicted with the disease, as that would certainly destabilize a handful of tiresome Wizarding families and put the fear of Merlin into others. However, the bill presented to the Wizengamot did not sufficiently anticipate workplace discrimination loopholes—even if discrimination against werewolves was made illegal, there were no affordances for accommodations needed by those with the condition, such as extra leave each month. It was obvious that many business owners could still refuse employment to a werewolf on the basis of the lycanthrope’s inability to complete their job duties 3–4 days each month, roughly 10% of their possible employment time. Tom’s suspicions were confirmed when a surprising number of seats with no investment in creature rights indicated they would vote to pass; it was the first time he advocated against a piece of Hermione’s legislation. 

It was just too likely that, with this law in place, the Wizengamot would refuse any further improvements for lycanthropes. That would effectively privilege werewolves in the wealthiest families only, and after a generation of acclimation, there would only be more members of ancient pureblood houses with funds and connections in place to keep the common werewolf down and destitute. It wasn’t worth the temporary gain. He made sure the bill did not pass.

Tom had his page carry his written report to Hermione’s office but did not receive a response.

He did whip the votes needed to pass a smaller bill about inheritance law that made it easier for direct descendants with mixed-blood heritage to claim dormant titles and lands, whereas previously, preference was given to indirect but pureblood descendants. Despite the clear personal motivation for supporting such a law, he held it up for two months, over the winter break and into the new year, until his notes about the language surrounding family relationships had been addressed with a revision. Wizards were accustomed to passing titles through indirect descendants all the time, especially with the high rates of squib production and disinheritance among certain bloodlines, and so it was vital that the bill not insult the sympathetic lords by implying they had not been ‘true’ heirs.

And he noticed, as the Wizengamot sessions drew on through the year, that Hermione less frequently tried to smile at him from the balcony as she watched the body debate her legislation. It hurt, for obvious reasons. He had asked for space but he still wanted her to miss him, to have a special smile for just him. However, his position was everything he had in the wizarding world now, and he would not do wrong by the seat.

Even without Hermione, he wanted to tear down the world that had spurned him as a vulnerable child. He would keep clawing until his own title and his own seat were meaningless. Tom knew she would be stronger with him, knew that their efforts were more impactful when they worked together, but still he did not break and seek contact. He couldn’t do that to himself anymore. If she truly thought his feelings toward her were not real, or were just the result of misplaced gratitude tracing back to his childhood, he would only be driving the stake further into his own heart.

So he stayed silent, except through the most impersonal of official channels, and endured his fellow Wizengamot members making snide remarks about troubled bedfellows, and redirected the handful of well-meaning inquiries by confirming that, no, he and Miss Granger had never shared a romantic relationship. If it burned a little each time he said that, it was just more proof that the distance was necessary.

Tom had succeeded at everything he had ever put his mind to, with one notable exception, and so he passed this time without even a scant clue of whether Hermione was dating or socializing. He had never been a major presence on the social circuit and so withdrawing entirely for the season should not have been a notable choice.

It was, though.

Marius Black was the first sign that people had noticed his absence from public life. The man invited Tom to lunch in January and spent two hours talking through an intricate proposal for squib integration to Hogwarts, including the merits and drawbacks of holding placement exams for first-years, and it was only later that night that Tom realized he had actually been excited about something for the first time in months. And Marius kept at it, bringing Tom out for a business lunch at least once a month, often once a week. But Marius could have been a fluke. Perhaps he was simply taking advantage of Tom’s lack of purpose for his own aims—it would be fitting for a Black, and Tom wasn’t entirely certain that Marius _wasn’t_ making the best of Tom’s bad situation. That he bothered to ask how Tom was doing each time could have been politeness.

However, Lady Flint, Lady Malfoy, and Lord Selwyn had clearly worked something out between the three of them, as well. Tom found that he was never alone during Wizengamot recesses; whether Gardy was chattering about something, Lady Malfoy was foisting knitting patterns upon him, or Lady Flint was asking about his father’s garden, Tom never had the space to let his eyes wander through the audience gallery. 

When Valentine’s Day rolled around, a large box of Honeyduke’s finest was delivered to his office along with a card signed by all of his Slytherin boys. Even Tom couldn’t help but smile a bit at the sight. He always had been a fiend for chocolate.

And when Tom came back from work on the Thursday before Easter weekend, Thoros was waiting for him.

“Thor?” He shouldn’t be here. He should be back in Ireland, or in a library clear across the world, so late in his apprenticeship. 

“Hey, Tom,” his friend greeted him quietly. It had been over a year since they’d seen each other last. “I thought I might enjoy the holiday with you. Your father was happy to host, and we wanted to surprise you, so, well—hello.”

“Thor,” Tom repeated his friend’s name, pulling the other man into an embrace. “Thor, I can’t believe you’re here.”

The Riddles had always adored hosting Thoros, who was so well-mannered and genuinely kind that he slotted seamlessly into their lives whenever he visited. The Easter weekend was a joyful distraction, with good enough weather for Tom Sr. to take the boys out riding on Saturday, and the whole family gathered for dinner on Sunday. Thoros would leave on Monday morning, so he and Tom spent the evening holed up in Tom’s bedroom by themselves. They had so much ground they needed to cover.

They sat side-by-side on Tom’s bed in their pyjamas, studiously not touching, propped up on more pillows than was truly sensible. It was a funny sort of reminder of their Hogwarts days on much smaller beds with less luxurious trappings, and Tom’s nostalgia drove him to talk about their shared friends.

“The boys pooled together and sent me chocolates, did you know?” he asked Thoros. “They sent them to my office, on Valentine’s Day. It was a shockingly considerate gesture, coming from them.”

“I heard. Avery reached out, but I told him I had something else planned for you,” Thor smirked. “You do like this better than sweets, right?”

Tom tossed one of the many pillows at Thoros, who let it land on him harmlessly. “You like my family so much, I half think you used me as an excuse to see them!” he accused.

“You Riddles are _all_ charming,” Thoros agreed before turning back to the earlier topic. “Avery’s engaged, now, and I think he’s trying to put more effort into his friendships. Belle is a good match for him. I mean,” he gestured loosely, “he was always sociable, but now he’s considerate, too.”

“It’s difficult for me to see that crowd as bothering to be considerate of me,” Tom said, sinking further into his pillows as though the wall of stuffing might block out the embarrassment of that admission. “I always felt tolerated, at best, back in school.”

“Still?” Thoros asked, but he quickly corrected himself. “I suppose you don’t keep in touch with them much. You should consider it, Tom. They miss you, and they’re maturing. Rosier’s seeing a half-blood. Dolohov brought around some Muggleborn friends to a party, last year, and the only reason they were at all remarkable was because they were Russian. I’m not going to lie and say they’re a converted lot, but they’re not hopeless.”

Tom sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It certainly felt hopeless at Hogwarts.”

“Yeah,” Thoros smiled, “but most of that was the boys putting on a front because you intimidated them. Or, in Antonin’s case, a very badly mangled attempt at wooing you.”

“Antonin, really?”

“Since your cheekbones came in in fourth year, _zaichik_ ,” his friend teased him. 

“Oh, god,” Tom moaned. “That’s a terrifying thought.”

Thoros nodded sagely. “You were a prudish little thing, back then, weren’t you?”

“I was raised in an orphanage and went to mass on Sundays. I can’t expect you to understand,” Tom dismissed his friend’s conclusions a bit defensively. He had been a prudish little thing, but it hardly seemed fair to bring it up.

“No, I get it—half the rituals I’ve studied have ties to Muggle religious practices, I’ve read the Christian bible.” That was a surprise, admittedly. “I can understand why you were. It’s just, well, it’s funny, isn’t it? You were practically feral, those first few years, but even hint at sex and you would burrow into yourself.”

“I bet you all had a right laugh at me for that,” Tom grumped, still uptight about the ways in which he never quite assimilated in his youth.

“I think, mostly, I was just fascinated by you,” Thoros said, turning on his side to look at Tom directly. He shoved a few pillows out of the way, clearing the space between them. “I was awful those first couple of years, don’t mistake me, I was terrible to you, but I _was_ fascinated. If you hadn’t come along in third year and forced me to be your friend I think I would have been as hopeless as Antonin, mooning after your cheekbones.”

“Really?” Tom turned to look at Thor. “I had no idea until the end of seventh year. You never let on.”

“I was shy and stupid, and I really do like being your friend.” Thoros extended his arm as if to grab Tom but paused before touching him, asking: “May I?” When Tom gave permission, the other man pulled him in, holding Tom close with a hand around his shoulders. It was exactly like they had spent so many nights as children.

Tom allowed himself to relax into Thor’s embrace. He’d seen other people since he’d ended his relationship with Hermione—it had been over half a year—but those casual intimacies never grew to the level of trust he shared with Thoros. He asked about Thor’s work, wanting to feel more connected to his oldest friend.

Thoros launched into a description of his studies. “Binding rituals, Tom,” he explained, “modern conceptions of interpersonal relationships have invaded the space, but I think we’ve lost the variety for which they were intended. Marriage and adoption, that’s what you think of, right?” Tom nodded, his chin brushing Thoros’ chest. “There’s archaeological records pointing to the use of so-called adoption rituals on terminally-ill adults, which is hardly a conventional adoption narrative. There’s a huge variety of rituals binding two or more adults together, but only a small fraction of those are still practiced, and we call them marriage rituals. Maybe our marriage rituals weren’t even intended to be used as such, upon initial creation; maybe some of them were meant for different sorts of alliances.”

“And what’ll you do with this wealth of old rituals, Thor?” Tom asked, tracing his fingers along Thoros’ collar. Thor’s voice was so reassuring, his enthusiasm so even-tempered, that Tom wanted to listen to him all night.

“Realistically? I’ll be a horribly boring old academic, taking bright students and converting them into more of my own image.” He laughed, his throat bobbing merrily. “But ideally, we would reclassify. Open up to new sorts of commitment types, restoring old rituals and creating new ones as we learn how to apply the runes. There’s rituals for Muggles, Tom. No—” he hurried to insist, “—not like you might fear. Rituals that make it easier for a Muggle to co-exist with our world, rituals to grant them equal status so they’re not impacted by our aversion charms and illusions. Imagine, Tom, Muggle parents being able to bring their children all the way to the platform at King’s Cross, or visiting their children at Hogwarts. Or marrying a Muggle and living on Diagon. Really, we used to use our magic in such different ways.”

“You know,” Tom started, looking down at the soft flannel of Thoros’ pyjama top beneath his cheek, “Hermione would have loved to hear that. She would think of so many ways to use this.”

Thoros sighed and stroked Tom’s hair, consoling his friend. This was inevitable; Tom hadn’t mentioned her name all weekend, but it was bound to happen. “Do you miss her?”

“Yes,” Tom said immediately. He paused, though, and thought for a moment before correcting himself. “Well, sometimes. I miss what I thought she would be, if that makes any sense at all.”

“It does,” Thoros confirmed, drawing his arm more tightly around Tom’s shoulders. “You spent years working on that relationship. Even if it was never, well—that’s a lot of effort.”

“It’s been difficult for me to be excited about anything since—and it’s stupid, because I was the person to call it off. She would have happily kept going. But I hear something that should motivate me, like your research, and I don’t feel anything at all.” This was hard to admit. Tom hated that a single person could have so much sway over him, let alone someone who had been so callous about his emotions.

“She was an important part of your life,” Thoros consoled. “You can’t simply move on. You need time, and you need other people.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but Thor was resolutely holding back until Tom prodded his side sharply. “Ow!” Thoros yelped, swatting at Tom’s hand. “Fine, yes, and you’ll need to reconcile the things she did for you when you were still a child with whatever mess you’d call these last few years.”

Well, that was absolutely unacceptable. No wonder Thoros hadn’t wanted to say it aloud. “Thor,” Tom growled, positively unthreatening with his mouth pressed into his friend’s shirt, “you, of all people, would betray me like that?”

Thoros was prepared for this, though, and immediately launched into a justification. “She did keep saving you from all of our jinxes in first year, and she taught you how to behave like a human boy and not an angry wildcat. And then she helped you claim your title and restore your legal rights to your family vault, of course. She also put you in touch with your father—”

“We already knew how to do that, and she didn’t even ask before she made the man adopt me!” Tom objected, stampeding over Thoros’ list.

“Well, yes, those are both true,” Thor conceded. “She really doesn’t have much grace. Handles things like a bludger to the face. However, she did, and you are better off for it. Your family loves you, Tom.” Here, his look was pointed, because the Riddles really had learned to love Tom. Among his pureblood peers, that much wasn’t a given—or, at least, supportive family relationships couldn’t be assumed. Thoros’ own father was, in his _best_ iterations, slightly distant.

“Fine,” Tom said, acquiescing. “Continue with berating me.”

“Thank you,” Thoros pulled Tom in briefly to butt their heads affectionately, “so the father thing, and she’s been a valuable collaborator in your political work. I know how much you care about the education commission, even if you’re not enthusiastic about much of anything right now.”

His friend had a point, as much as it pained Tom to admit. “It would be easier if she had just been thoroughly terrible in every way.”

Thoros laughed, full and clear, and clutched Tom to him throughout. He was so fucking _free_ with his emotions, always had been, always knew how to talk about things even when the words weren’t right or easy.

Tom envied him. He envied Thoros, but maybe even more than that, he was overwhelmed by how glad he was to know him.

“Tom, you absolute wanker,” Thor said, pulling himself together. “She’s not some villain from a fairytale. She’d never be all bad. And anyway, now that you’ve cut her out, what do you want to do? Do you want to keep working through the Wizengamot? You can stop, do something else, if you like.”

He’d never really stopped to consider that other parts of his life might change. In Tom’s mind, cutting out Hermione was enough of a change. “I like it well enough.” He did. He liked many of his colleagues; he enjoyed rewriting old laws for a new era. The Ministry as a whole was unappealing, but his work kept him well-enough isolated from other parts of the bureaucratic machine that he could imagine keeping on. “I think the work’s fine. She’s still around, though.”

“Do you think you could be friends with her someday?” Thor ventured, speaking more cautiously than he had all night. His arm around Tom was comforting but loose, and Tom could tell his friend was concerned that this might be too much.

“I’m not—it’s too early, really,” Tom said. He wasn’t ready to contemplate that at all.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to say. Vulnerability had never been Tom’s strength, and in the past year, he’d spent so much energy being vulnerable with the wrong person.

“I wish you didn’t have to spend another year away.”

Thoros stilled underneath him, his hand pausing in the middle of a lazy stroke through Tom’s hair. For a few moments, neither man so much as breathed.

Finally, Thor broke the silence. “In another year—I’ll be back for good. Not just the holidays,” he whispered, his mouth close to Tom’s ear as he moved down the bed, drawing himself to Tom’s level. 

Tom looked at him, meeting Thoros’ bright hazel eyes directly. “You once said, if we were both unattached…” he allowed himself to drift off, leaving the implication open and deniable.

“Only if you’re ready,” Thor answered, looking steadily back at Tom. “I’ll be willing to try, if you tell me you’re ready.” And then Tom pulled him closer, clutching desperately at his friend as he buried his face into the man’s chest.

He’d said he was willing to _try_.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Thoros move on together. Scenes from a relationship, told in pieces.

Thoros Nott moved back to London and Tom Riddle moved out of his father’s house.

It had been long enough. Tom had spent nearly as much time living in Riddle Manor as he had getting over Hermione, that folly of youth, and a year and a half was more than enough time to mope. He found a new flat in a non-magical part of the city, somewhere that would be easy for his family to visit, and with a spare bedroom to host them. Saying goodbye again was bittersweet, but unlike his first time moving away from his family, he felt sure of their role in his future. Saturdays at the stable and family dinner following that were firmly part of his life.

Thoros had a mastery in runes, now. Tom had organized the Slytherin boys to send him a nice gift when he defended his thesis: chocolates and wine, of course, but the central feature was a nameplate for Thor’s desk with his credentials displayed proudly. Thoros Nott, Master of Runes. He’d earned it.

They danced around each other for a few weeks. There was a party when Thor settled into his new flat, and Tom came late and left a bit early, the only guest to get a lingering hug as a goodbye. Thoros dropped by Tom’s office at the Ministry and took him out to lunch; Tom paid and let the lunch drag into a second hour. 

And then there were no more excuses. Their flats were unpacked. Thor had reconnected with all of his friends and family. The Wizengamot was in the slow middle period of a session. They got dinner, and dinner ended at Tom’s flat, and then they were undressed on his bed. Thor muttered an “All right, then?” and Tom mumbled his consent into a kiss.

Tom flipped around, on his side and facing away from Thor as the other man arranged and prepared himself. Thoros thrust in with one smooth motion, his cock filling Tom as he held him close, Tom’s back pressed to Thor’s chest and Thor’s arms securely around him. Tom couldn’t help himself; he let out a desperate groan, totally lost to the feeling of Thoros inside of him. He clutched Thor’s thigh as though to pull him further in.

“Wow,” Thoros gasped, keeping himself completely still. “Are you always so—demonstrative? Because I am going to come _so_ fucking fast if you are.” He panted, his hands still gripping Tom tightly.

Tom shifted his hips impatiently, whining at Thor’s restrictive hold. “Get on with it, then, don’t make me—”

“Make you what?” Thoros whispered, his mouth close to Tom’s ear. Tom shivered as his warm breath tickled his neck. “Make you beg for it, Tom?”

“ _Fuck_ , Thor, I—you were the one begging last time, weren’t you?” Tom wrenched one of Thoros’ arms up, pinning it down on the bed and freeing him to move. He jerked his hips, working himself on Thor’s cock. It was the other man’s turn to groan; he couldn’t resist responding, grinding himself so deeply into Tom’s arse that Tom could feel Thoros’ balls pressing lewdly into the back of his thighs. Tom lifted his leg just enough for Thor to go deeper, tangling their legs together in the motion. 

Thor pulled his hand free and brought it down Tom’s side to his hip, his light touch teasing. “Merlin, how did that even happen?” He ran his fingers through the coarse hair on Tom’s stomach, trailing along the path until he reached Tom’s sack. Thoros rolled Tom’s balls between his fingers almost idly, ignoring Tom’s whimpering and his eager prick as he spoke. “I can still get off, remembering that time,” Thoros said as though confiding a secret. He emphasized his conspiratorial tone with a snap of his hips, sweaty flesh slapping flesh as he slid out and in again. 

“I shattered your nascent sexuality, Thoros?” Tom laughed through his gasping breath, pulling Thoros’ head down to his neck with a hand in his tawny hair. He couldn’t resist the teasing. Thor was devastating Tom, making him feel desirable and even _happy_ , and he needed to feel him everywhere. 

He needed the feeling of Thoros’ soft laughter on his shoulder. He needed the demanding stretch of Thor’s prick in his arse. He needed Thor’s hand skimming along his balls and his thumbnail grazing the base of Tom’s cock and he needed his voice and his body and his _love_ and—

“Thoros,” Tom croaked, suddenly overwhelmed. “I need you. Make me come, god, make me come,” he begged, finally giving in. And Thoros obliged, taking Tom in his hand and pumping his cock in time with his own thrusts. Tom was trapped between the two motions, frantic and moaning as he ground himself backward to take Thor more fully. He held nothing back, coming quickly into Thoros’ hand as he called out his name, while Thoros kissed his neck and let his own orgasm take him, filling Tom with his release.

The two men held each other during the come down, hands finding skin and stroking softly as they stayed together. Tom pulled Thor’s semen-covered hand to his mouth and sucked it clean as Thoros watched over his shoulder, arrested by the sight.

“You have had,” he accurately guessed, “a busy few years, Tom.”

Tom felt suddenly more self-conscious. “Does that—I mean, is that going to bother you?”

Thoros nuzzled the back of Tom’s neck, letting his nose rub against the fine hairs there. “No,” he said quietly. “I was busy with my own life, and you had yours. If anything… I’m excited to see what else you’ve learned. Is _that_ an issue?”

“Oh,” Tom laughed, “not at all.” He turned his head back and kissed Thor, keeping a hand in Thoros’ hair even as they parted. “We should probably—” he started saying, but Thoros interrupted with an embarrassed laugh.

“That’ll go down soon enough, sorry, I can—”

“No!” Tom said a bit too quickly. “Er, if it’s all the same to you, I like—well.” God, he felt like an adolescent, all elbows and pink cheeks after a fuck. Tom usually had no issues letting his partner roll away as soon as they were done, but he didn’t want Thoros to leave yet. 

Thor got the message and stayed put, his slowly-softening prick still buried in Tom. _Fuck._ Tom could work himself up again just thinking about it, but he did need to talk through something else first.

Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he said, “We should talk about what this is, Thor.”

Thoros nodded, his chin scratching along Tom’s shoulder blade. “Tell me what you want,” he said so simply, as if it were nothing at all for Tom to… to _want_.

He could feel his throat closing up, his tongue getting thick, and his eyes stinging. Tom bit his cheek and swallowed, not even noticing how Thoros had started rubbing away the tension in Tom’s bicep. “It’s not only—I can’t be casual with you. When we were younger, that was fine, but it’s changed for me. If you don’t want to—to be exclusive, to be serious with me—and I _mean_ it, I mean _really_ serious, I want to find someone for _life_ —we should just stop now.”

Thoros didn’t respond right away, his thumb still pushing slowly into the meat of Tom’s arm. When he spoke, his voice was measured and considerate. “I think I want that, with you. I can’t promise that we’ll work out, and I’m a little worried about that. About not being able to promise you that,” he clarified, pulling Tom close and dislodging his prick in the process. They were a wet and sticky mess, Thor’s soft cock pressed between Tom’s arse cheeks in this lazy embrace, but it was comforting. Thoros wasn’t shying away from the gross realities of their sex. He wanted to be near Tom, to comfort him and to receive comfort. Tom still felt like crying, the mix of relief and fear nearly undoing him.

Thoros seemed to sense his overwrought emotional state and kept talking. “Even if we don’t stay together,” he soothed, his voice low and rumbling, “I would regret never trying to make it work more than I’m afraid of failing. There’s been… others,” he said evasively, sensitive to Tom’s vulnerability, “but I enjoy your company more, even just as a friend, than I’ve ever enjoyed them. That’s something, isn’t it? And I barely need to say this, but you are devastatingly attractive to me, of course.” 

Tom let out a laugh that sounded like a sob and slapped lamely at Thoros’ arm. “You should always be saying that, you prat.” He clutched Thor’s hand a little too tightly, and his voice was slightly unsteady, but Tom managed to reciprocate, saying, “And I think you’re gorgeous, Thor.”

“It’s decided, then,” Thoros pronounced, placing light kisses along Tom’s shoulder with each word he spoke. “We’re two beautiful men, and we should date. Did we do this out of order? We’ve fucked twice, and now we’re going to act like a couple? Mmm,” he pretended to ponder these questions, mouthing the side of Tom’s neck where he was ticklish. As Tom batted at him, trying not to laugh, Thor kept speaking. “I choose to take it as a sign that we don’t need the usual pleasantries. After all, I already know your family, and you have the misfortune of working with part of mine.”

“Thor,” Tom gasped, finally driving the other man away from his neck, “now you’re just being cruel to me. I’m—I am going to be a _mess_ , you know. It’s not her, not anymore, not… specifically. But I still can’t—I don’t even know. How do I find words to describe how I’ve been broken?” He felt melodramatic; he deserved some ribbing. Still, it was true: Tom knew that he would fall apart over strange things, and likely need more reassurance than was reasonable. He really, _really_ liked Thoros. Thor had been his friend forever, and he and Hermione had always been the first people Tom would want to talk to about anything in his life. Only, Hermione had taken that role for granted, and over time that had torn Tom apart. He was petrified that it could happen again.

“Tom,” Thoros sighed his name. He apparently decided they had spent long enough lounging in the disheveled bed and rearranged their positions, lying on his back and pulling Tom down on top of him. With a muttered spell, their mess was mostly gone and the blankets were tucked around them. Embracing Tom, Thoros said, “The best we can do is deal with issues as they come up, but I promise you that I’ll try when they do.”

There it was again—Thoros promising the one thing Hermione never would, completely unprompted. Tom didn’t think when he blurted out, “I’m half in love with you already.”

He wanted to take it back immediately. How utterly embarrassing; his soul was so deformed from one bad relationship that he’d lost all sense of appropriateness. 

Except Thoros leaned forward and kissed him. His eyes were closed and he held Tom’s head between his hands gently, reverently, prompting Tom to return the gesture. Thor was generous beyond words for smoothing over this gaffe.

He ruined it by immediately teasing Tom. “I am an amazing fuck, yes,” Thoros quipped once they ended the kiss, his palms still cupping Tom’s jaw. 

Tom blanched and made to turn away, but Thoros didn’t let him move far. “Look,” he said, still calming Tom, “this is just one of those things we work through. I can pretend I didn’t hear it—though it was… nice,” Thor looked a little pink when he said this, “and we can talk about it when you’re ready.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to be anything other than fully on or fully off,” Tom whispered, threading his fingers through Thoros’ hair yet again tonight. It was soft and a radiant mid-brown in the low lamplight, and he still wore his waves over his forehead like Tom had told him to style it so many years ago. He was lovely.

Thor kissed his nose. “You did say _half_ in love; is that progress?”

“And _you_ said you would forget that,” Tom accused him as Thor smiled apologetically. “Hermione aside—no, don’t laugh, I’m being serious—I think that sort of intensity is an inherent part of me. Even now, I’ve started thinking about you as mine.” He frowned, knowing he shouldn’t feel that way.

Thoros hummed before responding, buying himself some time. “Would you let me go, if I wanted to end our relationship?”

“Yes,” Tom answered without hesitation. He’d let Hermione go so many times before their final ending; he’d learned to live with her other relationships. He’d wanted more commitment from her, of course, but he hadn’t expected her to be celibate when she asked for a break. He’d respected her right to move on, even if it had taken some adjustment to realize they were on very different pages.

“Okay,” Thoros continued, “would you keep me from my friends, if you didn’t like them?”

“I don’t like them—”

“That’s a lie,” Thoros interrupted.

“—but that’s your own mistake to make,” Tom finished.

Thoros snorted. “Cruel. Would you keep me from my job or hobbies?”

“You have hobbies?” Tom was skeptical. The man had been singularly-focused on academics since he was a teen.

“I could have hobbies,” he defended himself. “I ride horses! Your father says I’m decent.”

“My father is lying. He says the same to me.” Tom laughed, then answered the original question: “I wouldn’t, of course. Mine mean too much to me.”

“Tom Riddle has developed a sense of fairness?” Thoros joked. “I should write that woman and thank her for that much. It only took, what, a decade? Maybe I’ll grow you a tolerance for socializing with people your own age, given enough time.”

“If you do,” Tom groused, barely accepting being the butt of the joke, “it will only be because we’ve waited long enough for them to mature into reasonable people.”

“Oh, no, I do believe Malfoy will behave like a spoiled adolescent forever.” Thoros smirked at Tom’s groan; they both knew they’d be stuck with Abraxas until they died. “Tom,” he said, his tone once more serious, “Your intensity is part of you. You recognize what would be controlling and you say you wouldn’t act that way.”

“And… that’s it? You’re just going to trust me?” To say that Tom was shocked would be an understatement. He raised himself on one arm, his other hand planted on Thoros’ bare chest for stability. Thor’s eyes had only a faint trace of green visible in the dusky evening light coming through the window, but Tom knew the hazel there before him was watching carefully. 

Tom wouldn’t trust Tom, really. The idea was ludicrous.

Somehow, Thor didn’t seem so bothered. “That’s rather the point, Tom.”

“Well, fuck,” Tom said, dropping dramatically back to the bed, his head hitting a pillow and his arm thrown carelessly up. He tilted his head, shooting Thoros a devious look. “You make it sound so easy,” he swept his arm in a broad arc, gesturing with an exaggerated flick of his wrist as though casting a spell, “perhaps I already have undue influence over you.”

Thoros picked up the game, holding his hand to his heart. “My dear, even you couldn’t manage a post-coital Imperius that effective. If it’s anything, it’s the sex.”

“Crass. Gross! Thoros, you, a man of letters, would be so shallow?” Tom laughed and ruffled his hair in the way he knew was attractive. “I mean, I understand I am _uniquely_ desirable—”

“Oh, yes,” Thor mockingly simpered, “you wickedly seduced this innocent scholar into your bed, and I find myself quite trapped. How much more of your awful personality must I tolerate until I get my second round, then?”

“Absolutely none,” Tom promised, and he was on Thoros once more.

* * *

“You don’t have to do this, Tom,” Senior said hesitantly as his son braced himself. 

Shoulders squared and gaze determined, Tom huffed back, “I said I would learn.”

“It’s—it’s not necessary,” his father tried again, “I know you don’t need this, with your magic. And the manor’s on your floo network!”

“Which you know how to work!” Tom screamed his inadequacy, wincing as his voice rang out much too loud for the enclosed space of the Wraith’s cabin.

Tom Riddle Sr. was functionally capable with magical transportation. Tom Riddle Jr. was, as of yet, unable to pull the Rolls out of the drive.

In his defense, brooms, floo, and apparition had no analogues to changing gears, and to say that Tom was apprehensive about stalling out a Rolls Royce—no matter his father’s assurances that it would be okay—was an understatement.

They did, eventually, make it past the end of the drive.

* * *

Their shared flat was dark when Tom arrived home from another long day of work. Thoros was there—Tom could see his shape, sitting hunched forward on the sofa, could hear the soft rhythm of his breathing in the silent room—but something had upset him. It was a weekday; the most burdensome thing that Thor _should_ have dealt with was a research delay. This was not right.

Tom crossed the room in three long strides, not bothering with light. He knelt on the floor and took one of Thor’s hands between his own; it was trembling.

“Thor,” he breathed the name, “Thoros, what’s happened?”

Thoros’ voice was rough. It cracked when he said, “My father found out about us.”

Tom’s world fell out from underneath him.

Lord Nott had not been present at the Wizengamot session today. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence—plenty of people on the Wizengamot were responsible for family properties or businesses in addition to their seat and would take the occasional leave. Hell, people got sick. Tom was a rarity for having so little else to occupy his time and being so young as to still have reliably-good health. He hadn’t thought twice about Cantankerus Nott’s absence.

However, this relationship wasn’t public. Their closest friends knew; it was difficult to hide after over a year together and the choice to share a flat. The news had been doomed to spread.

They’d never discussed it, announcing anything officially.

Tom’s family wouldn’t know until explicitly told. He’d always figured the Muggle side would be harder to tell. He hadn’t envisioned that the wizarding side wouldn’t be their choice.

“Tom?” Thoros whispered hoarsely. He sounded so—so small. Confused and lost. 

Tom had never seen Thor so hopeless, and yet his first reaction had been to, what? Feel sorry for himself? _Fuck._

“Thor, I’m so sorry,” he said, pulling himself up and onto their sofa. “Would you like to talk about it?” This was about Thoros. He had to put Thoros first.

Thoros shook his head and might have whispered “no,” so Tom wrapped him into his arms.

He held onto Thor like it was his life’s sole purpose. Tom stroked his back and kissed his hair and didn’t comment when his shoulders trembled or his body shook. He made sure Thor drank water and put them both to bed early.

They talked in the morning. 

Tom took the day off and brought their breakfast to the bedroom, cuddling next to Thoros when it was time to talk. They’d done this so many times before; no matter the subject, it felt conquerable when he was curled into Thor’s side.

“I love you,” Tom said, pressing his lips into Thoros’ chest. “You know that, right? I love you. I’ll listen to whatever you have to say.”

He prepared himself to be hurt. Thoros’ father was a wizard of the most conservative sort, an old pureblood if ever there was one. Thoros was so radically different, so shaped by spite for everything his father embodied, that it could be difficult to remember their relation. Tom could think of so very many ways Lord Nott might have reacted to his relationship with Thoros, and none of them were good.

If Thoros needed to end this, he would—he would lose his fucking mind, and almost definitely try to curse Cantankerus, and then Thor would hate him and—

And he needed to put Thoros first.

“Do you think you can talk to me?” Tom asked, wrapping his arm more tightly around Thor.

With a heavy sigh, Thoros began to talk. “He was angry enough to try a howler. I blocked that, sent it right back.” Tom could hear the almost-smirk in Thor’s voice; they both loved their magical flourishes. “He came here, Tom. He came to our home and I let him in.”

Thoros sobbed once, a strangled, choked noise bursting from his dry throat. “Why did I let him in?”

“He might have found a way through the wards,” Tom tried to soothe, petting Thoros anxiously, “You saved yourself from sitting through—”

“He’d never have gotten through. Not us. Not our wards,” Thoros said bitterly, deep into his own regret. “I invited him in because I—I thought, maybe, I could talk him down. Maybe his objection could be reasoned with. If I was just _logical_ enough, he would… fuck if I know! He would be a father, for once in his life.”

Thoros sounded so incredibly angry. He was _never_ like this, usually so even-tempered, able to keep his calm in any situation. To hear how much this had upset Thor—“What did he say?” Tom couldn’t help but ask.

“All rubbish,” Thoros dismissed immediately. “Rubbish I won’t repeat to you. Suffice it to say that I’m not in the line of succession for Lord Nott as long as I sully our family with so-called impure blood.”

Tom had heard it all before, even from Thoros when he’d been a child. He knew this was coming, and still, it hurt. It hurt to be a less-than-sufficient match for Thor. It hurt to be the cause of Thoros losing his birthright, even if it was a birthright he’d never wanted. 

“I understand. I can—I can—” But he _couldn’t_. Couldn’t offer to walk away from this, not another relationship, not again, not like this.

If Thor wanted to leave, he could. Tom wouldn’t fight. But he wouldn’t be the one to do it, this time.

“No!” Thor clutched Tom a bit manically, his fingers digging into Tom’s back and bicep. “Salazar, no, fuck, no, Tom,” he rushed, blurring the words together in his haste to get them out. “We’re not—I’m not leaving you. No. Not ever, and certainly not because of him.” Thoros took a deep breath, trying to calm the heartbeat racing under Tom’s cheek. “I…” his voice drifted before it could crack, but Tom heard the lurking unevenness.

“I was supposed to have a father. I was _supposed_ to have a father!” he yelled, screaming his frustration to their ceiling. “You’re a _fucking_ lord! I know it’s fucking wrong of me to say, but that should have been _enough_.” 

“It—it was never going to be enough,” Tom reminded him as gently as he could manage, half in shock from the rare burst of profanity out of Thoros. “I’ve got mixed blood. Your father would never see through that.”

Thoros’ voice was quiet and small when he spoke again. “I really thought he might. For the wrong reasons, but I thought he might.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted it for the wrong reasons,” Tom responded truthfully. “I’d never have been more than tolerated.” Tom held Thoros in silence, processing what to say next. He couldn’t reconcile Thor and the current Lord Nott, but: “My father adores you. It’s not a replacement, but he does.”

“He doesn’t know we’re together,” Thor said, the tiniest bit of resentment lacing his voice. “He could hate me if he knew that I was living a life of sin with his boy.”

Tom sat up sharply, looking down at Thoros as he defended his father. “That’s not even fair. He’s not religious.”

Thor sat up as well, wrapping his arms around his knees protectively. “But you don’t know,” he argued back, looking almost afraid of himself. “You’ve never told him. He thinks I’m just a friend, not his—his son-in-law.”

And though the label wasn’t quite right, not yet, he understood. Tom squared his shoulders and looked into Thoros’ hazel eyes. He loved those eyes. He loved this man. “Is that what you need?”

“Tom, I couldn’t ask that.” Thoros looked strained; he was still curled into himself. He might not be willing to ask for that, but he wanted it, plain as day.

“I’ll tell him. You can be there if you want, or I can do it alone. Whenever you’re ready,” Tom promised. With more than a touch of gallows humor, he added, “And if it goes poorly, we can be fatherless together.”

* * *

It was a spring day, a day for a drive, when the air smelled like budding trees. It was a day to be outside, or, perhaps, racing through the outdoors on just this side of the posted speed limit.

“This is really quite fast!” Tom gripped his armrest with mounting alarm; no amount of magic could have prepared him for this.

“Quit driving from the backseat,” Tom Sr. admonished his son from the front passenger seat of the Wraith. “Okay, Thoros, you’ll want to accelerate when you’re coming out of this turn up ahead—you should feel like you have better contact with the road while you’re heading into the next straight, if you do it right.”

Thor, the absolute traitor, thought this was all great fun.

“I’m going to die,” Tom moaned from his backseat prison, “I am going to die because my father and my husband are _reckless fiends_ and _car fetishists_ and—”

“And we offered to let you stay home,” Senior reminded him. “I know you don’t much enjoy driving.”

“But I can!” Tom cried, perhaps the tiniest bit afraid that he might have disappointed his father. 

His father turned in his seat to soothe him. “Of course, Tom,” he said, though Tom was rather less soothed than he might be, as Thor was now driving without supervision. “You’re quite proficient, but it’s not to your taste like it is to mine or Thor’s. I’m sure Thoros appreciates your support, though.” Senior fixed him with a weighty stare that made his intentions clear: be a good partner and stop panicking before you ruin the experience for Thor. 

Tom, ever the good son, listened to his father. He shut up and let them enjoy the drive. 

He opted to knit and keep Grandmother Mary company at the manor when Tom Sr. suggested a drive again the next week.

* * *

“I’d never been to a christening before,” Tom said blithely as Thoros winced beside him.

“Perhaps—perhaps don’t refer to it as a christening in front of the hosts, though,” he corrected. “Naming ceremony will do.”

“And yet you call them godparents,” Tom laughed. What a change from his youth—he would have been mortified to be caught unaware of wizarding culture during his adolescence. In adulthood, it all seemed rather more silly. “There is no reason behind what wizardom takes from the Muggles and what it leaves behind.”

“Yes, love.” Thoros patted his arm absently, a reassuring sign of affection as they wound their way through the crowd to leave their gift for the new parents. The Averys were some of the first of their yearmates to have a child, but as the engagements and marriages continued to pile up, they would be far from the last.

Once they had resolved their obligation, Tom and Thor retreated to a far corner of the Averys’ reception hall, seating themselves away from the eager aunts and uncles and enthusiastic young couples crowding nearer the newly-named baby. It was a boy, a good omen or some such rot—Tom knew he should care more. A good friend would care more.

Tom had never been a good friend to more than two people, one of whom had graduated from friend to partner, and the other of whom had… not been able to make that transition.

Still, he was happy enough for Avery. The man had wanted this, and now he had it; that was reason enough to celebrate.

“No naming ceremonies at the orphanage, then?” Thoros asked once they had settled. A couple, seemingly distant cousins, was conversing in low tones on the sofa opposite Tom and Thoros, but they were otherwise undisturbed. As the afternoon wore on, the other Slytherin boys would probably make their way over, when their partners split off to talk with their own friends. 

Tom prepared to kill the time until that happened. “Really,” he opened his lecture, “fewer babies than you would think are born into an orphanage. Far more commonly, it’s a child past infancy becoming an orphan, and, well, they come with their own names.” He rolled his shoulders and extended an arm along the back of the sofa, projecting possession of Thoros without actually touching him.

If Thoros rolled his eyes at the show, Tom pretended not to notice.

“I used to wonder what would have happened if my mother hadn’t named me before she died,” Tom said, pleasantly surprised by how little the topic of his mother affected him. “It would have been impossible to find my Muggle family, and nearly impossible to find my wizarding—I would have needed someone to hear me speaking parseltongue and make the leap to Slytherin, which is so unlikely as to be… well.” He stopped talking now, unsure what else to say. It was nearly unthinkable, not having his father’s family and being stuck with solely the Slytherin legacy.

“You might still have been called Tom,” Thor suggested, half-joking. “Common enough name, for a Muggle.” Tom huffed in annoyance and turned away to face the crowd; he’d hated his name as a child, and though that dislike had waned with age and maturity, he’d never be comfortable with anything about himself being _common_.

Thoros chided him in a whisper. “You’re so dramatic,” he said with a muffled laugh. “You have a lovely name that you get to share with your father. Look at us wizards: I have a name from a culture I don’t share. Most of us are named for ancient civilizations with little connection to Britain, and those that aren’t largely have fanciful nonsense names that have gained legitimacy from sheer repetition.”

“Well,” Tom blinked, taken aback by Thor’s vehemence, “you never wanted a young Thoros for yourself, then?”

“Merlin, no.” Thoros laughed slightly manically, overwhelmed by the idea. “I escaped with something that is, at least, intelligible as a human name. I—I figured,” he spoke lazily, his eyes glancing to the side, “if I ever did have children… nice English names.”

 _Oh_. If he ever did have children, they would be with—

“Tom!” Abraxas Malfoy shouted, interrupting their seclusion. “Thoros! You would be hiding out here.” The blonde was trailed by Dolohov and Rosier, all three having apparently been left by their partners to fend for themselves. Of course they would immediately gravitate toward the old group. 

“Abraxas,” Thor welcomed their friend. “Putting together ideas for your own, then?”

Malfoy exaggeratedly flopped into a nearby chair, driving the distant Avery cousins from their sofa as they realized the quiet corner was about to become notably less so. “Little Lucius will get nothing but the best, of course.”

“Lucius, then?” Dolohov asked as he and Rosier took opposite ends of the sofa that had just opened up. 

Throwing a hand over his eyes with a pained expression, Malfoy groaned. “Don’t—at least pretend to be surprised, for my wife’s sake, will you? It took ages to settle on the name.”

Rosier snickered behind his drink and even Tom cracked a wry smile. “And Lucius, that was the best you could manage?” Dolohov said, the only person brave enough to face Abraxas directly.

The two grumbled and bickered with each other, but Rosier’s eyes were fixed on Tom and Thoros. He’d been silent too long for that look to herald anything good.

“Er—” Tom started, trying to head off whatever Rosier was about to say.

“I always thought Nott would have children,” Rosier began speaking, just loud enough to trample Tom’s directionless start, “and Riddle would be childless, of course.” To Tom’s unending surprise, Dolohov and Malfoy immediately stopped bickering and nodded solemnly, as though this had been discussed before. “But then Tom, you went and got all domestic with Hermione Granger and now our lovely Thoros,” Thoros waved his hand imperiously, acknowledging the compliment, “and Thoros, you went and imploded your inheritance for a half-blood.”

Tom could feel the minute shifting of Thoros’ body as he processed the unintentional slight. Rosier didn’t mean it—didn’t see the wounds he’d prodded, only a couple of years old—but Tom knew Thor intimately enough to realize how it would sting. He ran his thumb lightly along the back of Thor’s neck, down to his shoulder, in a gesture of reassurance.

“ _Rosier_ ,” Tom said warningly, letting iciness drip from his voice, and the other man course-corrected quickly.

“What I mean to say is, of course, that Thoros found a rebellious streak.”

“And a terrifying political force for a partner,” Abraxas raised his glass in mock-salute to Tom.

Thor relaxed enough to smile faintly, placing his hand on Tom’s knee. 

Dolohov cleared his throat. “It was always obvious that it would be Fedya and zaichik, I think. Since we were little, you have been close. Is that rebellion?”

Rosier, cautious from his reprimand but too nosy and too eager to engage Dolohov to stay silent, disagreed. “It wasn’t obvious when Riddle and Granger were together for _years_ with Thor off doing his academics,” he dismissed.

Malfoy was the tie-breaker, and all eyes turned to him. “Nott and Riddle used to be close?” he mocked, buying time as the center of attention while Rosier hissed at him and Thor laughed, embarrassed. “I apologize, Antonin, but I must agree with our friend. I truly thought Hermione would be it for Tom.”

Tom couldn’t help himself; he spoke without thinking. “I did, too.”

And then all eyes swung to him, Thor’s most pressingly.

“Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong,” he insisted, and maybe it was the admission of his own flaws, or maybe it was the need to avoid tension, but the boys laughed off his mistake.

“I am sorry,” Rosier apologized to Thor while they were all setting things straight. “About your father. You’ve been quiet about it, and—” he headed off Tom’s glare, “—and I shouldn’t have said anything. He’s dreadfully behind the times, anyway, your father. Half-bloods, ‘Muggle-raised,’—is that the term? yes—squibs… it’s a free-for-all, thanks to Riddle and old Walburga’s uncle.” Rosier grinned ferally. “I know you and Nott don’t keep up with the mainline Blacks, Tom, but Wally is _spitting mad_ about that. I’ve seen her burn more than one _Prophet_ with Marius’ face in it.”

Tom, mildly alarmed, said, “That is not the reassurance that you think it is.”

Rosier simply shrugged. “Oh? It’s just Walburga. I thought you would love to know you’d upset her so much.”

“Your work is good,” Dolohov broke in, always comfortable smoothing over the group’s roughest edges. “Things are not great in Russia, right now, with the Muggles,” he said carefully. Tom had heard—in Britain, the postwar years had been lean, but things were starting to turn around and rationing was almost completely over. His father expressed that the Muggle economy would likely be doing well soon, following this period of austerity. However, Senior had shared the papers with Tom, where reports about the Soviets grew more dire every year. There might be some bias, of course, but… they were not headed into the same postwar boom as Britain.

“Some of my friends are thinking of moving to Britain. The half-bloods, the Muggleborns our age, they think there is more space for their children here, even as immigrants,” Dolohov said meaningfully. 

“My niece might be a squib,” Malfoy offered, and Tom realized that this was becoming a confessional, with him playing the role of pastor. He fought not to squirm from the discomfort; Thor squeezed his knee. “She’s too young to be sure, but Amelia’s sister says she’s never performed accidental magic, and at seven years old, well. One begins to prepare for such things.” He flexed his hand uncomfortably, looking around the room without meeting any of his friends’ eyes. “She’s in primary school with the other children, though, and she has friends, and no one’s quite sure what to make of—of a non-magical education at Hogwarts,” he rushed, words tumbling with unusual awkwardness from Malfoy’s lips.

“It’s really more of a, a broader scope,” Tom said quickly. “Not magic versus non-magic, rather: education on a range of useful topics with different paths through, based on interest and ability.” He looked around at Rosier, Dolohov, and Malfoy, who were much less familiar than Thor with Tom’s standard pitch. “A perfectly capable wizard could choose not to take potions, if he wanted. He could choose to pursue writing and history and art, if he liked.”

“Old Slug will have to work harder to earn his keep, then,” Dolohov observed. It was not clear whether this was a joke; the professor really would have to rely on something other than routine to keep students in his class.

“Right.” Malfoy cleared his throat, obviously determined to get through whatever he felt obligated to say. “Regardless of the—the framing of it all, even if Elise is a squib, she’d, well, she’d have friends and purpose at Hogwarts. And she’ll be sorted, so she’ll have a house… she’ll learn the castle, meet the ghosts, cheer on her house quidditch team… it’s irreplaceable.” Malfoy looked painfully earnest; Tom just barely resisted turning away from the naked display of emotion.

Tom thanked him awkwardly, brushing off the sober topic with as little fanfare as possible. A round of solemn nods later and the boys let it drop, content to return to lighter subjects such as speculating who would announce a pregnancy next (Rosier’s sister, probably), and whether Alphard Black would ever marry (unlikely). 

In the distracted hum of their chatter, Thoros leaned toward Tom.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispered into Tom’s ear, his warm breath and smooth voice as effective as the most passionate kiss at making Tom forget the rest of the world. “Everything you’ve accomplished—it’s incredible, Tom.”

After hearing his friends tonight, Tom was inclined to agree.

* * *

Hogwarts looked the same as always.

It was ten years on since the first class of squib students had entered the school as first-years, and… many more years than that since Tom had last graced the halls of the old castle as a student himself.

The Great Hall was done up for a celebration, an unusual occasion for midsummer, but ten years of mixed education were more than worth celebrating. Magical families that would have abandoned or sequestered their children, a generation back, mingled together as though a non-magical relative was as commonplace and acceptable as having a child go into curse-breaking. Perhaps it was.

There was Marius Black and his daughter—too young yet to tell if she was magical or not, but with a pureblood mother, the chances were good that she was not—chatting amicably enough with Abraxas’ father, head of the Board of Governors. And not far from them stood Galatea and Tom’s own father, who, judging by his distressed expression, was being cajoled into trying a wizarding waltz by Tom’s old professor.

“You should be proud,” Thoros said to him as he returned with a fresh drink. “Ten years and they haven’t tried to kill you once!”

“I really thought appointing Albus to be headmaster was the opening salvo for an assassination attempt,” Tom responded.

“I still can’t tell if you’re joking about that,” Thor frowned beside him. He looked so distinguished and lovely in his formal robes—Tom would never get tired of it. He was a fine figure, himself, but Thor wore a set of traditional robes the way only a man born into them could. Someone else might accuse him of swanning about, but not Tom; he enjoyed the sight too much.

“I don’t joke, of course.” Tom smirked as he surveyed the room while Thor glared at him with fond annoyance borne from years of marriage. “Perhaps these adversaries of mine are simply planning a long game. There’s time yet to kill me—I’ve almost flipped a few more seats on the matter of introducing natural sciences to the curriculum.”

“Two more years, I think,” Thoros tutted. “You know that when my cousin takes the Nott seat—”

“Is it crass to be thankful that our delightful nephew is a squib?”

“Yes,” Thoros replied with a sigh. “Not that I expect anything less from you.”

Tom shrugged, his smirk turning into a slightly more genuine smile as he looked up at Thor. “It was awfully convenient, is all. We’ll do something nice for Edward when he comes of age.”

“Again, I must remind you that you are using your nephew for political maneuvering,” Thor said, not even bothering to pretend at offense. It would have been wasted on Tom, anyway. “Regardless of how much it will upset my father when you flip the Nott seat, perhaps gloat a bit less while he still holds it? He could always— _oh_.” Thoros’ eyes narrowed nearly imperceptibly. “She came.”

Only through sheer force of will did Tom keep himself from whipping around in the direction of Thor’s gaze. There would only be one _she_ he’d bother to reference like that, tonight.

“Tom Riddle!” Hermione’s voice called delicately from the crowd as the woman of the hour made her way to Tom. “And—Thoros Nott, is that you?” she asked innocently enough. It wasn’t as though they had interacted since Thor had been a schoolboy, but the question still felt strange. Thoros and Tom were so widely-acknowledged as an item as to have faded out of gossip column relevance.

And yet, here she stood, smiling up at both of them and waiting for a response. Hermione Granger, dressed in elegant traditional robes with her hair tied back as tightly as ever, had taken up the invitation.

“Ah—I didn’t realize you were coming,” Tom said for want of a better response. 

“It was somewhat last-minute,” she forgave him his awkwardness with grace, “I wasn’t sure whether I would be in town for the event, and then, well—you know how I am.”

He hadn’t seen Hermione for over a decade, but some things, it seemed, had never changed.

Thoros looked between Tom and Hermione. He squeezed Tom’s hand once, twice—“Hermione,” he greeted her, still holding Tom’s hand, “Tom, I’m going to say hello to Marius and Marguerite. Come find me when you can, love,” and then with a final brush of fingers, he was gone.

And Tom was alone. Alone with Hermione.

“It’s so nice to see you, little rabbit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometime in the break between this and last chapter, this story surpassed 400 kudos, which is: wow! I appreciate the love you’ve shown to this unusual take on the characters. 
> 
> We’re closing in on the end of the story, with just a final conversation between our leads left to go. Thank you for your views, kudos, and especially your comments throughout this. ❤️


	17. Chapter 17

“It’s so nice to see you, little rabbit.”

Tom immediately bristled. The false familiarity, the callback to a childhood nickname—none of this felt right. Hermione hadn’t left him on fond terms; she couldn’t just stroll back in for some warm reunion.

“Would you like to head out to the courtyard? It’s so noisy in here,” she said, raising her voice just a bit.

She was right, of course. The crowd of attendees was noisy, in the echoing stone hall, and the din of music would make any long conversation strained. Privacy was reserved for friends, though. Privacy, easy conversation, warm reminiscence: those had to be earned. Hermione had not earned them.

“No, I’d rather sit,” he said brusquely, motioning her over to the nearest empty seats at one of the long banquet tables, highly visible to anyone in the room. 

“Oh, well, if you’d like,” she acquiesced, taking her seat with a graceful sweep of robes. He climbed in next to her, feeling too big for his skin. “It’s been so long, Tom. Congratulations on your marriage. You did get my card?”

“Yes,” he said stiffly, his eyes fixed on the wood grain of the table before him. Tom traced the whorl of a knot with his little finger. “We received it. Thank you. There was no return address.”

“I was between residences at the time,” she responded lightly, the evasion still achingly familiar. “I’m glad you received it. I was surprised to hear about your union. What did your father have to say about that?”

Tom _hissed_ at her. “You could ask him yourself. Last I saw, he was chatting with Galatea.” 

Hermione straightened, her shoulders going rigid and her expression firm. “Tom Riddle Sr. is here?”

“You might not know, given you’ve been, well, between residences. Do you get the _Prophet_?” Tom asked with false concern. He paused for a moment, as though to let her answer, then shook his head. “My father took up a role as an advisor to the educational commission when we were evaluating non-magical subjects for inclusion in the curriculum. This is all a matter of public record. We needed more than one person who’d formally studied the subjects, right, and who knew something about non-magical university degrees. He had the free time and the floo connection, so.”

“That’s good,” she replied a little tightly. “Good that he’s doing well. That he’s been so accepting.”

“Why doesn’t it sound like you believe it’s a good thing?” Tom asked, cocking his head. Had Hermione always been like this? Had he simply missed the cues, given his age and desperation for a caring authority figure? It would explain why his father had always been so distrustful of her, and why Thor had expressed doubts. 

She deflated, shoulders breaking their firm line and slumping forward as her head sank. “You’re still upset with me. I thought—it’s been so long. You sent me an invitation to the event. I thought you might not be.”

“Finding an address for you was exceedingly difficult,” he admitted. They’d searched for weeks while planning this event before deciding to try the post box at the owlry in Edinburgh. “Marius would have happily left it as an announcement in the _Prophet_ , and even Galatea and Gardy doubted if it was worth that amount of effort for someone who’d been involved with the work for only around a year. I insisted. You were a foundational member, and it was your original proposal that led to all of this,” he swept his hand out to the room, “It would have been wrong to not try. Believe it or not, but I respect you enough to attribute credit where it’s due.”

“But you are still mad, despite all that.” Hermione’s eyes were fixed on an abandoned glass before her, lipstick stains around the rim. If he looked, from their position, Tom could see his father and Galatea waltzing on the other side of the room, and the top of Marius’ daughter’s head above the crowd—he must still be holding her. Marguerite was making her way through the throng toward her daughter and husband, and Tom wondered if his own husband was still there, or if he’d been caught up in some other conversation by now.

Of course he was still mad. It was a stupid question. Tom had no forgiveness to offer her, and he certainly wouldn’t apologize. He wanted to stay silent, and let Hermione stew in her misery, but… maybe there was some small part of him that remembered he once cared for her, because looking at the despondent form of Hermione Granger, he was moved to try and say _something_. 

“I don’t think I’m—I’m not really angry with what happened between us in the past. It has been a long time, and my life is very different now. But you… you still irritate me in the same ways. Your incessant need to jab at my family, at my husband—why?”

“I—” she cut herself off from whatever initial defense she might have chosen. Taking a deep breath and turning to look at him—not in the eyes, somewhere slightly over his left shoulder, but facing him regardless—she said, “I’m sorry. I was surprised to be invited to this, and I wasn’t sure what you expected of me. I may have come on too strongly. Can we try again?”

“Fine,” Tom sighed. He spoke mechanically: “Hello, Hermione. I’m glad you came. How are you these days?”

“Thank you, Tom. I’m well. Really,” a small smile crossed her face, “really well. I’m back to working with the elves. They want to start a public campaign here in the next year, and I’ll help with a legislative proposal. It was a longer process than I thought, but I’m glad to be involved.”

“Back to working with them?” Tom asked mildly. He hadn’t heard much about Hermione over the years in any direction—a rumor of some forthcoming project here, gossip on the social circuit there, but most often, her presence took the form of a question: whatever happened to Hermione Granger, that promising Head Girl? Hadn’t she been involved with the Ministry for a few years, back in the ‘40s? Did she marry? No one seemed to have concrete answers, and as time and distance grew between Tom and that era of his life, he found himself more easily able to brush off the questions. 

If he’d talked about it, deep at night and in his bed with Thoros, if ever, he might have guessed that she was still working with Beings. He might have assumed, given her non-presence in Britain, that she had moved on to greener pastures in another country, like France or the United States. ‘Back’ implied something else entirely.

“Oh, I,” Hermione said, an undertone of embarrassment in her voice, “I was off of the issue, for a—well, some years.”

“Off of the issue?” Tom was shocked. “What could have possibly distracted you?”

She was clearly debating whether to tell him anything, which only made Tom want to know more. Hermione had always kept secrets, and there was still so much from the years they spent together that he didn’t know. He didn’t really want to know, now. He had no interest in dredging up old questions and wounding himself anew with whatever disappointing answer he’d receive, but this was probably different. This was after they’d broken apart. It shouldn’t reflect on Tom. Her hesitance wasn’t surprising, but it did slightly worry him.

She decided with a finality that showed in her face. “I was married. I spent time in Bulgaria, learning about the centaur culture there, and I met a wizard. He was a kind man, and this was years after—after us, and when he proposed, I thought I would give it a try. It didn’t work, in the long-term. I’ve spent the last couple of years re-establishing my standing in the Beings community.”

“You abandoned your work for a marriage?” To say that Tom was shocked was an understatement. He was bowled over. He was winded from the sheer exertion of experiencing this level of disbelief. If he hadn’t already been sitting, he would have required a chair.

“It didn’t start as abandonment,” she defended herself, closing her fist on the worn wood of the tabletop. “It started as any relationship, and I kept up with my work, but the strain of traveling wore on us,” and how much it still hurt, to know Hermione had been capable of an ‘us’ with someone else, even if the thought of an ‘us’ with her was no longer appealing to Tom, “so I began traveling less and spending more time at home, which.” She stopped talking abruptly, seeming to realize the inherent intimacy of this topic, and suddenly aware of her company. “It didn’t work,” she repeated. “I ended the marriage.”

“That’s a novelty, you recognizing that you needed to move on,” Tom said bitterly, just a touch vexed. She would only develop a sense of self-awareness after their relationship.

Hermione reeled back in her seat, burned by his sour mood. “If you’re going to act like that, I can just go.”

“Scolding me for my childishness, Hermione? I’m in my thirties,” he bit back.

“You’re right, so you should know better by now,” she complained at him.

He placed his palms flat on the table, ready to push up and stalk off. He felt like a coiled spring. “What are you here for? We’re clearly not meshing. There’s no amount of idle gossip that will mend this thread. I could tell you how I introduced Marius to his wife, but you’d probably imply something insensitive about him or his family in the process. You can try and tell me how your marriage had no bearing on what happened between us, and I’ll still find new ways to be hurt about that whole business. You’ve already insulted my husband and my father. I’ve already unearthed ancient insecurities. So let’s just get to the point, and you can tell me why you came, and we can both go back to separately enjoying the event.”

“It’s nothing so grand as you’re imagining,” Hermione muttered, still holding herself defensively. “I wanted to see how your work had turned out. I wanted to see how _you_ were doing. I wanted to know if, perhaps, we could work toward being friends.”

Tom laughed, throwing his head back and disturbing a passing couple with his manic energy. “Friends, Hermione?” he asked when he’d recovered. “I think we’ve answered that question.” Tom wrapped his hands around the edge of the table, gripping until his knuckles turned white and the joint of his thumb began to hurt. “I’m happy. Generally, I am happy. You’ve seen that I have friends and family and a fulfilling career. You could have seen that from the papers. I put too much of myself into our relationship, when I was young,” he looked at her unflinchingly, “That was my mistake. I was hurt by that choice. There were people who cared about me who pulled me out of that mess, after I left you; one was my father, and I’m grateful to you for bringing us together initially. I said some things to you, when I ended our relationship, that I don’t even believe anymore. I’m sorry for how any part of what I said that day might have hurt you.”

“No you’re not,” she interjected.

“No.” Tom paused to control his breathing. “I am not, but it sounded convincing.”

She smiled, and it was genuine. “It did. You’re very convincing, Tom.”

“I had a good instructor,” he complimented her earnestly. Was he—enjoying this teasing? “What gave me away?”

“Aside from the twenty minutes we’d just spent arguing?” Hermione laughed. “It was too well-crafted. Most people would have given a worse apology. They might say: ‘I’m sorry you were hurt,’ but you didn’t put it on me like you might have.”

“I’ve worked on my apologies, Hermione,” Tom chided. “I’ve been married, well, too long to not have learned how to apologize.”

“Sure,” she easily agreed, “but I’m not your husband.” Her eyes widened just a fraction as she realized how she’d led them back into the awkward mess of their muddled history. “Er,” Hermione actually stumbled over her words, “Thoros is a lucky man.”

“That was worse than my apology,” Tom smirked, enjoying her misstep. “You had a chance to take his spot, before he’d ever been offered it, and we both know how well that went. You probably went to bed on our wedding night thanking god that I wasn’t just waiting for you to come back around to me. Is that why you sent a card?”

“My husband told me I should send it, actually.”

“You were married before me?” Tom only just held himself back from shouting, but more than one head nearby turned to stare at him regardless.

She waved her hand nervously, sweeping it away in an offhand manner. “Oh, well, it was a quick courtship, and,” she stuttered, “He was a nice man.”

“For that, alone, I can never forgive you,” Tom said, somewhat more than half serious. “What the fuck was it about me, Hermione? I thought I was—no, that’s not on you. I was a mess. It took ages to accept that I could want what I have with Thor. So, please: what was it?”

“It wasn’t you,” she began, but Tom cut her off.

“None of that shit, please, be honest with me.”

“Well, it’s not shit if it’s true.” Tom scoffed at her response. The truth could easily be shit. “It wasn’t you, or if it was you, it was me as much as you rather than some objective trait of yours. I didn’t want the same thing, and my ex-husband can attest to that. I thought, with him, maybe I could—but I didn’t. Couldn’t. I’m not built the way you are, and I should’ve known better than to expect you could be what I needed, as young as you were. No—” she rushed to correct herself when Tom began to object, affronted by yet another complaint about his relative age, “—not like that. I just meant that if you had been older, more sure of your wants, when we met, we likely never would have tried. That was our misfortune.”

He backed off, the fight having gone out of him. What she said made as much sense as anything, and it was a kindness for Hermione to not say the words ‘I never loved you.’ They were true; both of them knew it. Still, he could go the rest of his life without having to hear it from her mouth. 

Tom sighed and pulled a hand down his chest, massaging his fingertips into his sternum as he centered himself. “This is closure, isn’t it?” he asked absently, not even noticing Hermione’s small nod. “It’s not very satisfying. I thought there would be… more, somehow.”

“Take it from the divorcée, little rabbit,” Hermione murmured, her words barely carrying above the noise of the room, “it never stops feeling unfinished. You just… keep moving, and let everything else that goes unfinished in your life bury it.”

“How incredibly depressing.”

“Yes, well. I think I’ve been here long enough,” Hermione stood and straightened her robes, “so I’ll find my way out. Your husband’s probably looking for you.”

“Yes,” Tom agreed automatically as he stood. “I should go find Thoros. It was nice seeing you again. Best of luck with your Beings.”

“Right, thanks,” Hermione smiled as she prepared to walk out of his life for the final time. Tom certainly would never extend her the opportunity to see him again. “Best of luck with your education. Tom—for whatever it’s worth, I am impressed by you,” and for once in his life, Tom felt nothing in particular about having Hermione Granger’s approval.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting. 💕 This has been an experience, hasn’t it?
> 
> I’m always happy to chat on [tumblr](https://phantomato.tumblr.com/), come say hello, tell me your feelings about this, and look out for whatever new projects I’m working on. Up next: a short, complete story about Tom and Thoros in a different AU.


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